A five minute walk from my parents house would take me to the home of a kid in my grade. His name was Jason. I did not care for him. I wouldn’t call him a bully but he said things that always made me feel bad about myself. But as it was the 90s, when the neighborhood kids gathered to play stickball flag football, I’d play.

I took a standardized test in eighth grade. He got the highest math score. My father was a math teacher. I was always good at math. I was proud of that. He said "It looks like Eric isn’t the best." People laughed. It hurt. Years passed. I was sitting in a computer science class in high school, chatting as class was almost over. A friend of mine came up. I said "Yeah, he’s a cool guy." Jason said "Well, no. He’s not cool. None of you are." I have not forgotten those words. I should.

Jason died in a motorcycle accident years back. One time when I visited my parents, we drove past that house. There was a sign in the yard. It said to watch out for motorcyclists. I’m sure his parents were very sad about their child’s death. Who could blame them? As a father, I shudder at the thought of losing my son at all, never mind to an accident.

This past week, Jason’s younger brother slit his parents’ throats as they slept.

I don’t know many details. I did not know their lives. I do know these were people who were not part of my life, but part of a community I had lived in. There is an emptiness in my gut this morning. What were offhand comments made by a now dead man still fester in my brain. Poison. Pointless poison. I can’t let it go. I must learn to.

I’m making this about me, which is even more terrible. It’s not. It’s about this poor family. My heart aches for them. In a few days it won’t. We don’t have the time to ache forever. Yet the poison will remain even after the ache is gone.

I hate that.