Yesterday, the Cappy wrote to tell me, as a by the by, that her friend had taken her life.

She jumped off the Bayonne Bridge a few weeks ago, leaving behind 3 kids and a husband.

It was her third try.

I had first met the woman, ironically enough, last year on September 11th, as we all sat around the Cappy's house trying not to watch the news, listening to the national guard and medevac helicopters fly over.

They both watched as the planes slammed into the buildings, the first as they were driving on the Jersey Turnpike, the second plane whistling over their heads by the Bayonne docks on its way to the towers.

They both reported the two planes seemed shrouded in shadow on that bright, clear day.

As the Cappy struggled to hold it together that day, this woman was a pillar of strength, as she stayed over the house and was there for the Cappy.

She was a beautiful woman. And an angry woman.

An extremely angry woman.

I didnt like her much as she spouted as much racist colloquilism in my presence.

I considered her an idiot. And that opinion only strengthened as I got to know her.

But, she was the Cappy's friend.

She was a local legend.

Everyone in Bayonne knew of the woman who had tried and failed to kill herself by jumping off the Bayonne Bridge twice. They even knew that she dreamt, obsessed, of dying off the bridge.

She did it.

Im sure everyone thinks, she coulda held it together. For her husband, who stood by her through thick as well as thin. Her three kids.

She couldve stuck it out. Shouldve?

Was it that bad?

She chose to die tho.

Its ironic, that she was the pillar of strength a year ago, when thousands of people died.

The majority of those didnt choose to die.

The Cappy asked me what kind of karma I thought that was.

I have not answered.
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Something I noticed while in New York..

I didnt hear anyone say "Nine-Eleven", as I do everywhere else.

Everyone I heard said.. "September Eleventh" or "Nine-Eleventh".

I thought that was significant.