Yesterday morning I said good-bye to 14. I don’t know how well I’m handling that. I was thinking back to the Easters I’ve had with him. It doesn’t seem right that there have been only two. I have so many memories of him – the first time we had coffee, playing street cricket, hanging out in the back parking lot of Panera, rescuing me from The Bat That Wasn’t There, going to Mass together, making movies, sneaking peanut shells into his pockets at the races, that time when my hair caught on fire and he put it out, all the laughter and the good times. I also remember all the times I said good-bye to him, but I knew that it was ok, because he was coming back. He’s not coming back this time, and it doesn’t seem real. Surely I’ll go to Panera, or the Oregon Express, and he’ll be there. I’ll go over to my parent’s house, and he’ll be in the living room, bugging Boy-O and getting teased by Mom. That’s where he belongs, right? Well, no. He belongs wherever God wants him to be. Right now it seems like that’s with the Jesuits in Louisiana. God’s will be done.