It’s mid February on writing this — 7 degrees at 9 a.m but 65 degrees a day ago.
This has always been Kansas City’s way of winter — wild mood swings, tempestuous winds, ice storms. A golf day slid in now and then.
I am jello in my heart. Just straight up terrified. My son has a gun and we can’t find it. One girl who has seen it — who held it in her hand — described it as silver and brass and heavy. Heavy enough that it’s probably loaded, she says.
He’s at school now. He goes out at night sometimes and stays somewhere. Someone named “Jack” he says. We have no idea. The mother of the girl he is wrapped up is going crazy. She texts me through the night.
It’s not in his room. We looked. We’ve looked just about anywhere it could be stashed and around the house and no luck.
There was tell-tale mud on his shoes and wood chips on his sweatpants. I searched the yard for any signs of disturbance.
The world is a big place to hide things.
Friend, I love you. This sounds so incredibly hard. I can't imagine difficult this is to endure. Thank you for letting us see you.
Holy shit my throat dropped into my stomach. The clarity in which you wrote this during such a disorienting time. Zed we love you.