It was the worst winter of a lifetime, that winter of ninety-six. Yet, neither I, in my forty-fourth year, nor my wife, for twenty-two of those years, was at all prepared for what was to come knocking at our front door that cold Friday evening in mid-February. In retrospect, it was to be the first sign of end-times for me. End of a life, end of a dream, end of the road.
It seemed like it had been snowing forever. So much, in fact, that we were running out of places to put the shoveled snow. Record snowfall, near-blizzard conditions, and canceled travel plans, had put us all at the mercy of powers beyond our control. Now it was snowing again.
I had just reached the warm confines of home a few moments earlier, after working overtime at my job for a nearby power supply company, and then battling the snow-snarled traffic to finally arrive in restful anticipation of a quiet snowbound weekend. Home, a haven for the heart, was Wharton, N.J., a virtual wonderland for a young boy to grow in, seated nearly equidistant between the pristine peaks of the Delaware Water Gap, one of nature's small wonders, and the Sistine towers of the New York City skyline, one of man's meagre attempts at touching the heavens. Since our town had an ordinance requiring all vehicles off the streets during a snowstorm, I had temporarily parked my car around the corner in the church lot and would soon begin the process of shoveling out my driveway, so I could move it there later, before the lot had to be plowed. My wife was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and I was in another room on the phone with my younger brother, discussing a "poem" I had recently written, when suddenly there was a knock at the front door.
My wife answered the door and told me a policeman wanted to see me.
All I could think was that they had already begun to plow the church lot and wanted me to move my car. So, I ended my phone conversation and went to the door.
"What's the problem, officer?", I asked, hoping there wouldn't be a ticket involved.
"Are you the father of John C. Bird IV?", he inquired firmly.
"Yes, I am.", I answered in a puzzled voice. "Why do you ask?"
"Your son has passed away.", he replied, in an attempted comforting tone.
"Are you sure?", I stammered, praying it was all a mistake.
"We just got a call from Indiana a short while ago."
"How did he die?", I managed the courage to ask.
"It was a suicide."
I stepped back in a sense of dread and disbelief, as the nightmare began.
My wife shrieked and collapsed to the floor, and our whole world came crashing down around us ...