I had decided that this year I wouldn't make note of the event.  I had no plans for a journal entry.  Then I picked up the newspaper.
 
It was on the front page, as I expected, marking the 10-year anniversary of the crash.  My brother was mentioned briefly by his former coach, a man who now helps coach my daughter on Tuesdays.  It was a fleeting anecdote, nothing more.  The rest of the article covered familiar territory, offering little but the perceived obligatory recognition.

I read up on the state's proposed new energy policy, and about a man who threw the lid of a toilet tank through a motel window.  Section B held the obituaries.  A familiar face smiled at me from page B-3.  I had read about the accident last month, but at the time no names were released.  In the dark, he'd swum out to retrieve his untethered boat and drowned.  Only 36, he'd been my next door neighbor some time before.  I'd helped him with the stereo in his Mustang, and with an engine swap on his old Bronco.  We'd sat in the driveway many times, drinking beer and just visiting, as neighbors do.  He was a nice guy.

He and his wife bought a house across town 6 or 7 years ago, and we sort of lost touch.  Eventually, they divorced.  When they vacated the rental house next door, Jason and Jo moved in.  More about them later.

I'm starting to wonder about my neighborhood. 
 
First, there was Robert across the street.  Robert was only 34 and didn't survive Iraq.  He was also a friend.  He took me fishing, and he and his wife had hiccup and I over to their house for meals and parties.  He was a bright, witty guy with a big heart.  I vividly remember the hammer blow to my chest as I read the paper that September day 8 years ago when I learned he died.
 
Jason was next.  We weren't close, but I'd chatted with he and Jo plenty.  Jason chose to take his own life, leaving behind a wife, a young son, and a mistress (complicated?  sure.).  That was 4 years ago in July.  He was 32.

Now, this.