The Song That Doesn’t Stop

The lyrics came to me the moment I opened the loft door.

"Billy."

Then:

"No."

Then:

"Oh, God."

That was the entire song.

I sang it loud enough to wake the neighbors.

The second I walked into the room, I knew.

I dropped to my knees beside the couch and gathered him into my arms. He was cold. His body rocked back and forth with mine like a mannequin's. His skin had turned a shade of white that didn't belong to the living.

I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

The woman who answered asked what was wrong.

I sang for her.

"Billy. No. Oh, God."

She asked whether I'd tried CPR.

What a ridiculous question.

"It's too late," I told her. "Please. No. Oh, God. Billy."

Then Bob arrived. Bob Slobbers heard the commotion and lumbered upstairs. He jumped onto Billy's legs.

Billy moved as a single piece.

"Get off!"

I dropped the phone and pulled Bob off Billy. 

That's the moment I remember most clearly.

Not the ambulance.

Not the police.

Not the people who started arriving.

Billy moving all at once.

A thing that should never happen.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Uniforms rushed into the loft. One of them ordered me to leave.

I answered by singing my song.

Another grabbed my arm and made the decision for me.

The front door downstairs stood open. Friends began arriving. At some point somebody handed me a paper bag to breathe in. At some point I asked for cigarettes. At some point I stopped understanding the order of things.

All of it began because I woke up on Monday morning, January 21, 2002, reached across the bed, and discovered Billy wasn't there.

More than twenty years have passed.

I can barely remember where I left my keys this morning.

But I can still hear every note of that song.