Bruce wasn’t always this way. He once had a wife. He once had children. He once had a life he adored. And just like the snap of his fingers, he didn’t. He lost his wife in a car accident. He lost his children in a house fire. He lost his job to his depression. He lost his life as he knew it.

He married Caroline in the late spring of 1978. They had an intimate ceremony—Caroline was never one for the spotlight, not even on her wedding day—with only immediate family and close friends in attendance, about forty in all. He often though about the sight of her, standing under the arched trellis hand in hand with him, surrounded by the fragrance of yellow roses, all eyes and lips, just waiting for the reverend to pronounce them man and wife. She was so full of love in that moment and every moment afterward that he feared she’d float away in its lightness if he didn’t tether her to the ground, but at some point during their life together, he had become careless. He had let go, and she floated up into the clouds where she belonged. He just wished he had held tighter so he could have his angel by his side instead of looking down on him from above.

Their marriage was a happy one. He had a secure job in a factory as the lead floorman and she taught third grade at the local elementary school. They bought their first home—their only home—just before Christmas of 1979 and he jumped at the chance to carry her over the threshold, swollen baby belly and all. They spent the last weeks before the birth of their first child, Charles, in a state of near giddiness.

Caroline watched from her rocking chair, hands rubbing her belly, as Bruce decorated the nursery with bunnies and trees. He painted a mural over the crib straight out of a scene from Peter Rabbit, and she was in awe of his skill and attention to detail. Together, they fortified the foundation of their small three bedroom brick home with love, and when Charles finally arrived, their love was so strong that it radiated around the block.

Charles was soon followed by twins: Jimmy and Etta. Caroline spent her evenings giving the children baths, reading to them, and tucking them in. Bruce spent his evenings marveling at the roundness of their perfect heads, the tightness of the grip of their tiny hands, and the happiness in their big round eyes, so like their mother’s that he often felt like four Carolines were watching him as he sang them songs, fed them carrots, and rocked them to sleep.

Bruce’s life felt whole at the age of thirty. He hoped against hope that that wholeness would never end. He could see himself growing old with Caroline. He could see the way that she would gracefully age, never losing her beauty and pep. He could see himself walking his Etta down the aisle, teary-eyed but pretending not to be; she would suddenly transform from his little monster with lopsided pigtails, skinned knees, and eternally snot-caked nose to an elegant duplicate of Caroline on their own wedding day and his heart would practically burst. He could see his Jimmy strumming away on the guitar in a smoky jazz joint—fingers so adept it was like they had a mind of their own—and there, at the shabby table just off-stage, would be his partner, eyes closed and body moving to the rhythm of the moment. He could see his Charles, professional baseball player for the New York Yankees, hitting so many out of the park that his record could run circles around Babe Ruth’s, and then some.

Now, he would often wake up from these dreams and for a few foggy moments, he would think he was back in his leather chair in the dusty twilight of the living room with the sound of Caroline humming the blues in the kitchen while making dinner, the sounds of their black and grey dappled puppy, Rascal, whining for Caroline to just drop a piece of the turkey already, and the sounds of the children in the backyard with Etta at the lead of any game they could be playing. And then the floodgates would open and it would all come back at once, threatening to pull him under in his grief.

He would never grow old with Caroline because she was dead. Her old car stalled in the middle of the train tracks over on Brook Road in 1990.  She tried to get out of the car, but it was like she was a fly caught in molasses. She was just too slow and the train was coming too fast and then she was gone. Just like that, and he didn’t know how he could go on without her.

They were all understandably devastated. He’d look at Etta and a flash of Caroline would fly across her small face as she tried to play the mommy and take care of her brothers. He’d look at Charles and see Caroline’s light yet strong grip as he held his little brother, shaking with the violence of his sobs. He’d look at Jimmy and just see Caroline; he was all her, through and through.

A year went by and they trudged through their grief. Slowly, they found things to smile at again, whether it was in Rascal’s romps through the yard in the unending pursuit of the almighty Squirrel, Jimmy’s growing musical skills, Charles’s quirky bravado, Etta’s attempts at making the perfect grilled cheese, or even Bruce’s inherent clumsiness, forever stubbing his toes or knocking his head on things and shouting, “mamma-jamma!” at the top of his lungs. He started telling bad dad jokes like, “Hey, do you think anyone ever asked a horse if he liked work? How do we know a horse’s work-ethic? Get it? Like a workhorse.” The children would always groan, roll their eyes, and look at him with a mixture of appreciation, respect, love, and embarrassment. After a while, he allowed himself to dream again. And in his dreams, Caroline was sometimes there and was sometimes not. He was becoming more used to the okay.

He would never get to walk Etta down the aisle because she was dead. He would never get to see Jimmy play a gig because he was dead. He would never get to see Charles play professional ball because he was dead. One day in 1991, Bruce took a ride to see if the carnival was in town. He told the children, now eleven and twelve years old, to wait patiently until he was back, that he had a surprise for them. Etta went to the stove to make her brothers grilled cheeses. She never noticed the grease-soaked rag lying so close to the burner.

When Bruce got home, Rascal was frantically clawing at the door, paws bloody with his efforts. Black smoke was billowing out of the windows and the only sounds were the crackling of burnt wood, the sirens of the coming fire trucks, and the howls of the distressed dog.

Bruce lost everything. He wasn’t always this way. He wasn’t always the wilted man, linked to his sad-eyed dog, sitting next to the tilt-a-whirl, asking passersby questions like, “How do we know a horse’s work ethic”. He once had a wife. He once had children. He once had a life he adored.