When I think of my friend Andre, my mind drifts back 50 years to our times in grade school delivering papers together during frigid upstate New York winters. Then my mind drifts back 45 years to the thousands of conversations we had with our friends at our public high school cafeteria lunch table. Or my mind drifts 35 years, to our time as apartment mates, when Andre showed me how to drive our U-Haul moving truck, all the while ignoring the glances of admiring young women drawn to his movie-star good looks.

A hundred more memories ran through my head as I learned of Andre’s death by suicide three weeks ago. To say that I was surprised would hardly cover it. If I had to make a list of the 100 people in my life I was most concerned about, Andre would not have been on it. When we last shared

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