Joseph Glasgow
On a Sunday not long ago, my friend Michael left his home in a "state of emotional crisis". He had driven off into the night in the family's minivan, children's car seats and all. The next morning, I found the van down by the river. Police were there, but Michael was nowhere to be found. We searched through the morning and into the afternoon. My wife was the one to locate Michael's body, hidden in the brush under a tree. I had to crawl into the brush to verify that it was him. It would appear that Michael took his life with a small caliber gun, yet I could not see a gun. A police woman told us that what had started as a search and rescue was now a crime scene. I looked long and hard at Michael, knowing that this would be the last time I would see him. Though it was difficult, we knew that it was best that he was found by people who cared deeply for him.
We met back when we had one toddler each. We shared our Dad worlds. Michael was many things to many people, but he was a toy collector at heart. He turned his childhood passion into a viable business, renting venues for toy shows and hosting local collectors.
Recently, Michael's wife of 17 years, the mother of his four children, told him she wanted a divorce. In the end, the official cause of death was suicide, but I will always believe he died of a broken heart. In the months leading up to his death, we spoke often and I always told him that we were going to get through this.
Michael ended his life in a place that I've frequented and photographed for decades. In the freakishly beautiful weather that followed his death, I returned to the scene again and again. These photographs are my attempt to come to grips with the loss and trauma. They retrace the locations we searched, hoping we would not find him, telling ourselves that he was somewhere safe. That was not the case. We left a medallion, with the logo of his toy business, on the tree where we found him.