Dana a poem by Bonnie Law. At my house he was shy, almost reticent, guitar in hand, a few poems he read reluctantly at my insistence, but he played his guitar and sang with his own kind of ease, as though playing and singing were his relaxed way of conversing. His delicate chiseled features and soft brown mop of right curls reminded me of a boy who played jazz piano at a center near my home, when I was thirteen. When I first heard the word protegee. Dana reminded,me of him. We met like that, now and then briefly, a short sharing of music and poetry, talked about the intricacies of life.and a girlfriend he once loved. That Autumn, he gathered his old Legos to give to my five year old grandson, shyly smiled as he lifted the box from his car trunk and spoke fondly of his own childhood memories playing and building with them. I wish I understood then, how the earth beneath his feet was imperceptibly shifting, how it would eventually crumble and give way. That an unspeakable grief would overcome Those of us who sensed his suffering, were just not enough of whatever he needed to save himself.