I was 15 when Moshe died.
When I think about my sophomore year in high school, I don't remember dances or concerts or anything like that, I remember that weird feeling I had like everyone around me was dying. I went to nine funerals that year. Two friends died of medical reasons, three committed suicide, two family members passed away, and two were killed by gunfire in the town where I grew up. While every single one of those people could earn a dozen pages in the story of my life, the one that I still think about most often happened today, February 17th, but back in 1995.
Let me back this thang up a second. I was a perpetually grounded teenager. I spent my time outside of school (or in the bathroom inside of the school) either playing my guitar, reading Michael Creighton novels, smoking cigarettes, or listening to music. Yet I somehow managed to get myself grounded...
