That night, Manhattan was loud and cold. The streets were apathetic. I met friends at a dive bar to see a buddy’s band—one of those places that never pretends to be anything else. Neon lights buzzed faintly overhead, beer-soaked wood worn smooth from decades of elbows and spilled nights, and a stage barely raised off the floor. I sat at the bar, made conversation with an attractive woman, and leaned into the familiar choreography.
Then, without warning, something inside me collapsed.
It wasn’t sadness. It was absence. Something was gone. No drama, no panic—just a sudden hollow emptiness. I excused myself, crossed the room, and sat on a couch against the wall, its upholstery worn with age and overuse. The band hadn’t started yet. The room hummed with quiet conversation and anticipation. I stared at nothing and felt certain—without knowing why—that something irreversible had already occurred.
Michael, my oldest friend, noticed. He sat beside me and asked if I was okay.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I feel like a part of me died.”
He didn’t try to comfort me or fill the silence. He stayed until the feeling loosened its grip. When the band started, I rose and joined my friends. After the set, I congratulated the band and went home.
The next morning followed its usual routine—coffee, shower, keys, work. I called my father once. Then again. By midday, the silence made me worry. I left early, drove over, and let myself in. The house was too quiet. I found him in the bedroom—where he wouldn’t normally have been at that hour.
The EMT said it happened during the night.
I remembered the bar. The couch. The hollow feeling.
It wasn’t the first time.
Years earlier, in my twenties, I’d been at a house party in New Jersey. Half-drunk, sitting on a sofa, trying to make time with a girl, when the same feeling arrived—sharp, uninvited, unmistakable. I went outside for air.
The stars were bright and indifferent. The yard was dark. In one of the trees, I saw a silhouette of a body hanging by the neck. It was unmistakable and impossible. Michael came out and followed my gaze. I asked if he saw it too. There was nothing there. The tree stood empty. We laughed it off, embarrassed by the moment. I went back inside. Back to the noise. Back to the girl.
Later that week, the friend who’d thrown the party hung himself in that very tree—his heart broken by a girl. Michael and I were stunned, grasping for explanations we didn’t have.
I don’t talk about these things much. In a desacralized world, there’s no way to discuss them without sounding irrational—or unwell. I don’t claim to have insight, foresight, or meaning. I only recognize the feeling now when it comes.
A quiet severing.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, February 11th, Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes
