I regret that I didn’t know Patrick Turnbull better.
He was the son of my first cousin. And while I’m on good terms with my extended family, I regret to say that I don’t keep in as close touch with them as perhaps I should. Birthday cards are exchanged, and news passes by word of mouth from aunts and uncles to parents and back. But in general, we have our own households to deal with; we’re in separate cities and have separate lives.
The last time I really saw Patrick, he was a bright young boy, not yet in high school, playing with toys, polite and happy. A lot has happened since, including high school and beyond. He’s had a life I’m not privy to, but it was full of love and promise.
Early in the morning this past Saturday, the son of my first cousin was found dead in the bathroom. A blood vessel in the base of his brain hemorrhaged, killing him instantly. He leaves behind two doting parents and a loving step-father, two sisters and a brother, and a grandmother.
I’ll always remember him as a young kid. He was 24. That’s still young. That’s way too young.