I'm cheating here, sort of. This actually dates back to 12 July 1994 when I was a columnist for the Oklahoma Daily, the campus newspaper for Oklahoma University.

But I was going to say something here for Sheepish and it occurred to me that I probably still had this column around on disc and it was as appropriate as anything else.

Anyway, here's the paste:

A family friend died last week.

He'd been my dad's roommate in law school. His son is my age, and we've been friends for years.

This has made me realize, once again, how ill-prepared I am to deal with death.

It is, admittedly, a difficult subject. That, however, doesn't make me feel any better.

Normally, when a friend has some sort of trauma, you go to his side. You attempt to do the right thing to make him feel better. What, possibly, can you say when that friend loses his father?

There is not a "right thing" to say. The best I can do is to have a pained expression. Words fail me.

I think back to the death of my brother. It was three weeks before my eleventh birthday; he would have been twenty the next month. Twelve and a half years have gone by, and I'm still not "over" his death.

I lost the person closest to me in the world. All I could do was sit on the floor in front of the TV, eating peanut butter cookies and Rice Krispie treats. A bunch of people I didn't know came by the house and tried to offer their support. They were friends of my parents, but that didn't help me.

Relatives came in from both coasts. Mom thought it would be a good time to get some new family pictures since so many of us were there. The photos reveal severely dressed people, eyes raw, faces trying vainly to smile to hide the pain.

I sat in near silence, wondering what I was supposed to be doing. After only one day of that, I decided to return to school.

My parents thought I shouldn't go, and they fully expected me to call them from school, wishing to return home. Nevertheless, they let me go. I went through the whole day in a haze, but I made it.

All these years later, I'm still not any better equipped to talk about death. I can write a column every week, but I can't come up with one thing to say to a close friend whose father just died.

"Here, have some peanut butter cookies. They worked for me."

I feel terrible. I want desperately to say something, to express that I've felt that pain, to show that I want to help him, but there aren't any words there.

I think back, and I remember the people. They all wanted to say something. Most of them found some sort of words, but those words seemed hollow. The peanut butter cookies didn't help either, but they gave me an excuse not to talk. My mouth was full.

Maybe someday I'll be able to deal with death on a personal level. Until then, I still don't have any words which express what I feel, and I don't much like the idea of stuffing my mouth with food so I can avoid talking altogether.

All I know is, those of us who are lucky enough to remain here should provide a fitting tribute to our deceased loved ones, and then try our best to cope.

Life goes on.

In loving memory of Jon Mark Poe, 1961-1981

(2000-04-21)