My neighbor died today, or yesterday: the cops won’t say.

Bernard is my friend. Or was he?

He was knocked from his bicycle ten days ago by a driver with enough gas and no conscience.

Story goes: he checked himself out of the hospital and nobody could stop him. Bernard said he didn’t want to be around all these dying people and so he left.

Two mornings after his impromptu welcome home party on Seward Street, the police were called and showed up for a wellness check.

They’re still out there — waiting, for the morgue, the notification, the sign it’s okay to walk away. It’s all part of the job. I understand.

I was a bad friend. I was half-time. Bernard was my friend. I only know I’m not the only one who will miss him.