In the past few weeks I have heard people talk about Peter, more than any time in my life. I am surprised, because often it isn’t the Peter I knew and loved. The Peter I knew was more sensitive than brutish. He could barrel over my sensibilities sometimes. Give him ten minutes and he would say he was sorry and we would discuss the issues at hand. He was rarely sentimental-that was hard for him-but neither did I doubt for a moment that he loved me. His intuitiveness was so acute, it bordered on spooky.
He visits my dreams nearly every night. I imagine scenarios, play out conversations we might have had, still rage at the stars, at the sickening tragedy of his murder.