Sometimes I stop by and see an old friend, and I don’t like it at all.

Unfortunately, I find myself much more familiar with the subject of suicide than I’d like. If I was inspired, I could write at least 5-6 right stories off the top of my head. Each one a tragedy that gutted a family like a fish and left a trail of regret and unanswered questions in its wake.

According to my research, during my lifetime, the suicide rate in America went up about 50%. While that appears to be a very sad and significant increase, it’s less than I would have thought. It’s a much touchier subject than I usually write about, so maybe it’s not that much higher, but just reported more often? I’ve attended to more self-inflicted funerals of younger people, during that past 10 years than I would have liked to.

The first one that throat punched me was November 1, 1988. It was my sophomore year at Kent State and I arrived back at my dorm room from somewhere I don’t recall. When I walked in the room, my freshman roommates told me my fraternity brothers had called and left a message that I needed to go to the student center for an urgent meeting. I don’t know if my roommates knew what had happened, but I walked blissfully unaware to the student center. I first spotted a lone fraternity brother, sitting on the floor of a hallway, looking down at the ground. I walked over to him.

I asked, “Hey man, what’s up?”

He looked up at me with tears in his eyes and said “You don’t know yet, do you?”

The rest of that event is a blur to me. I remember being seated with my fraternity brothers in Kent State’s “Governance Chambers”, which is a big board room with stadium seating. A couple university representative spoke to us and then we left.

One of my fraternity brothers, “Puffy”, was dead, he had intentionally overdosed.

I had known Puffy for about a year, and he was one of the nicest guys you’d ever meet. Funny, with a quick wit, he was always well-dressed and impeccably groomed. While many of my college contemporaries went about most their days in sweatpants and t-shirts, Puffy had shined shoes and pressed shirts. Caring and sensitive, he took care of disabled people as a part time job and loved it. He brought his clients around and introduced them like they were family.

I once asked John how he got the nickname “Puffy”, which I thought was because he smoked. He told me, there was an elf named “Puffy” in a Christmas movie, that a friend thought he looked like. They laughed about it, and the nickname stuck.

Mother Nature cooperated providing a dreary, cold, damp, gray day, as the fraternity members traveled to Puffy’s hometown of Steubenville, Ohio, for his funeral. I vividly recall the tears, damn, there were tears. The wailing, damn, there was wailing. While the tears weren’t new to me from the funerals of older friends and family, the wailing knocked me back a bit. This was not a celebration of life; this was a grief-stricken family. People were emotionally wrecked. You could taste the sadness in the air.

I remember being at the church, but not the cemetery, and I remember a reception at the family home. Memorably, I was ticketed for speeding on the way back from the funeral that day while driving on Route 7 through Stratton.

And that was it, life went on for me. A few of the older fraternity guys who were closer to Puffy struggled with his death, but they didn’t talk about it much. At every party that year, there was always a toast or three “to Puffy”. I know he left a note, but I never saw it. The story I heard was that he was depressed over mounting debts.

It never made enough sense to me.

Eventually, Puffy faded into the mist of my college years.

A few years after college, my wife’s family moved to Steubenville. And in January of 2002, my father-in-law unexpectedly passed away at home.

There are many unpleasant things about unexpected deaths and one of those is that funeral arrangements must be made quickly. My wife has two sisters, so I acted as chauffeur, ferrying the three of them and my mother-in-law around to the funeral home and cemetery to pick out a casket and grave.

When we arrived at the cemetery to pick a plot, the sexton showing us available plots said that he only had room in his vehicle for four people. And although I could have followed along in my car, I decided to stay at the office so my wife and her family could pick the plot together.

I knew Puffy was buried in Steubenville, but not which cemetery, so while making small talk with the cemetery office secretary, I asked if a “John Relotto” was buried there.

“That name rings a bell”, she replied.

She pulled out a metal box filled with information recorded on dog-eared cards, yellowed with age. I made a joke about the Dewey Deathimal System. The secretary chuckled and said, I’m going to use that.” After she found Puffy’s card, I asked where he was buried. She provided me directions, saying something like head out to the left, take first right fork, then a left a the giant oak etc. I told her if the women returned before me, to let them know I went to visit an old friend and I’d return shortly.

While driving to Puffy’s grave, I came upon the sexton’s vehicle parked roadside, where he and the women were standing amidst the headstones. I stopped, parked, and walked towards them.

As I approached, my wife said, “I thought you were waiting behind? Why’d you come looking for us?”

“I wasn’t looking for you, I was going to look for Puffy”

At that moment, I looked down and saw I was standing on a grave inscribed, “John Paul Relotto”.

Startled at the sight, I felt a chill up my spine. I said “Hey Puffy, I was just looking for you”.

The gals walked over and I gave them a quick summary about Puffy, how I knew him, and why he was there so young. They decided to take the plot they were looking at for dad, as I assured them Puffy would be a great neighbor.

So Puffy, once again, became a regular part of my life. When we made the pilgrimage to the cemetery to see dad, I’d stop for a moment to see Puffy wish him well.

After that, when in Steubenville, I’d often do a google search on Puffy. I’d enter his name, city, year of death, etc. I thought I’d find record of his old home address, and maybe drive by and see if someone was outside. Maybe I’d stop and talk. The internet was pretty young then, but I thought it strange that nothing ever came up.

Never.

I didn’t search the internet during every visit, but I probably looked a dozen times over 20 years. And never a result. Despite my memories and the headstone, it was like he never existed.

My mother-in-law passed a few years ago so the trips cemetery have increased. And since he’s only about 15 feet away, I always stop and pay my respects to Puffy. Over the years I noticed fewer flowers at his grave. Once I took a picture of his headstone and texted it to some fraternity brothers. We’d share a story or two, and maybe just an “oh-wow”. My cemetery visits followed the same script for years.

Until this Christmas season when I was in Steubenville.

I googled John Relotto Steubenville, Ohio, knowing I would find nothing, again, just like I had for 20 years. But then, surprisingly, an entire page of links displayed! I read about his father’s death and I read his mother’s obituary, which explained the change in flower frequency. I also found numerous links about his sister.

I was stunned.

When I got home, I reread some of the links, and after a little electronic sleuthing, I found what I thought appeared to be a valid email address for his sister, Mary.

Although I had no real idea what to say, I composed an eight-paragraph message introducing myself and telling Mary some of this story. Strangely, I struggled with a subject line for that email and ultimately ended up with “Merry Christmas, Mary”, as it was two days before Christmas when I hit “send”. I wondered what would happen next.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, while checking my emails, there it was, a reply from Mary. I wasn’t nervous, but I felt some trepidation when I first opened her reply.

Not only was Mary appreciative of my note, she wanted to know if I would talk to her. In the strangest kizmet, oddly timed, unexpected, email receipt in my history, Mary, who has led a quite accomplished and interesting life, is working on her memoirs. The day before she had written the chapter about her brother, John.

That startled chill that hit my spine at John Paul Relotto’s grave in 2002, not only came back, but it brought its friend, hair-stand-on-end, with it.

I read the chapter she wrote about John and we spoke at length. I told her what I knew about the life and death of her brother. I learned about John, before he was Puffy, along with his family, his history. For the subject matter at hand, it was a great conversation that brought about many memories and more questions. Mary had been away at a different college when John passed, and felt many things unresolved. It never made enough sense to her.

I told Mary that I didn’t have any answers beyond the note I sent her, but that I would help her find all the breadcrumbs I could. I feel like I owe it to her. And to Puffy.