He was crying.

I sat next to this thin stranger with dark hair,  watching him cry face down on the smooth polished bar.

He was crying alone in a room full of strangers more concerned with the soccer match going on on the television. He cried and cried — the steel-soft cry soundless but for his is taut breath and the anguished undulating ache of his soul wracking his body with unquenchable grief.

I reach over and touch his shoulder, “I’m so sorry brother. I”m so so sorry.”

I stand awkwardly, reach over and pull him to my chest, this stranger, this man who is my brother, I have no words. I offer nothing to him but the consolation of touch, and he accepts it because he has no strength to do anything else.

Seconds turn to a minute, and he pulls away, “uh… I… thank you. I’m sorry I lost it.”

“It’s ok.”

“I knew, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew,” he said.

I nodded, “Everything doesn’t always have an explanation.”

“My name’s Che,” he offered his hand.

“Good to meet you,” I shook his hand and said my name.

“Jerry,” I yelled for the bartender, “Che and I need two shots of Hennessy.”

The shots poured in front of us, I picked mine up, “To your brother, may he be at peace until you meet again.”

“For Joe,” Che said simply and pulled back the shot.