by Ariel Maccarone
Is it bad that I fell in love with a boy just because he died? That, in some weird, fucked up way I thought it was romantic that he died so young? Sixteen – stupid unadultered perfection. He never lived long enough to fail – or to become remarkable, but I neglected to think of that part.
It was a year after my own cousin died. He was 19. I was 15. Everyone was dying then. Everyone was killing themselves in high school parking lots or murdering little kids in Jewish daycare centers. Death was really “in” then. Ritalin and midriffs and dying. All under a California sun that was so damn gorgeous you almost felt guilty.