Four Years Later

Right after I found out he was dead, I immediately left the house. I wound up in my car, wound up at the nearest gas station, wound up with a Camel Light in my mouth, sitting on the sand next to Lake Michigan.
I looked around and had very little recollection of how I got there. But that seemed OK.
The sun was close to setting, and I glanced down the waters edge. Light reflecting on water was playing tricks on me, this I knew, but I saw a skinny guy, with longish hair, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and it looked like him the time he stepped off a Greyhound after 12 hours, just to see me. I blinked, he was still there. Walking away from me down the beach, like a mirage.
I wasn't crying. I wondered why.
By the stairs, there was a couple with a little boy.
"Hey David, come look at this!... David!" the man called out to his boy.
Really? The name David? I started to wonder about coincidences. At that moment, I didn't believe they existed.
He scooped up the little boy in his arms, and that is when I wept. I knew my David had been swept up in his Dad's strong arms when he young enough never to know the harshness of this world, young enough not to have a care in this world.
I didn't cry for David, or myself. I cried for his parents.
It's been four years, and I wonder about them often. I can hope they're not, but I know they are ruined.
That night, when I arrived home from the lake, I sat outside smoking. I knew that if I even had the simple thought of him being there with me, he would be. I didn't want him to be. Maybe he was either way. But if I had let myself believe it, I would have said these words outloud into the cool breeze:
Selfish prick.