My Godfather's gone. Massachusetts born. Ex-Marine. Boston College Grad. Devout Christian. Proud Catholic. Husband. Father. Godfather to a boy who was always remembered on his birthday with a new silver dollar. He died suddenly on Easter Sunday. A note came from his wife from faraway Chile where he retired, where he went to forget, to heal. My Godfather suffered too much for any man. The day their son died. The day his father and mother said good-bye to a boy barely a man. Moments latter the sound of a car crashing into a motorcycle. The Mother and my Godfather watching their Gerry JR. leave them on a Boston street. The house they lived in forever defined by a stone fence. The stone fence they shared with the cemetery where Gerry Jr. was buried. The daily visits without fail to his grave. They were never the same. Always, always, talking about their boy. But who is to judge? We talked often on the phone. We wrote many letters, sent emails. We hadn't seen each other in decades. But I remember when...the silver dollars, the trips to Fenway to see the Sox with Gerry Jr. I remember when life was whole for him, whole for his wife and his young boy and his Godson. Goodbye, Godfather. Godfather gone.