When I met them sick in the hospital, it was too late. But out there in the world, I seized on every bit of joy I could scrape out of the pan. These men had lived on the margins so long that coming into the light to ask for help scared them to death. I had to walk them through the steps, keeping things fun.

That's right. I have you. And I have my guys. And I have Allison. But I spent all this time believing everything I heard in church--that I need a husband to be whole, to have a family for Allison. And the whole time I've been creating one.

Paul and I sat in lawn chairs in my yard, and usually we could cheer each other up by talking about Billy. It was September 1993, and he had been gone four months. We had started the thing you do, where you collect the stories you'll tell over and over again. You begin to polish the edges of a memory--something funny he said or a specific performance--until the edges are smoothed and the story is comforting.

I go to the grave shared by my father and Jimmy. The question I get most, the one I hate, is why I went into his room. And why I helped people. Again and again, "Why did you do it? How?" The answer is, How could I not? The real question is, How could *you* not?

The song ended, but people wouldn't let him go. It was a blur after that; he had to do four more songs before they let him leave the stage. Two lines of people formed on either side of the stage, so he wouldn't have to move around. We all knew this was goodbye, and we were giving him his flowers now, while he could see how much he meant to all of us.