On Wednesday, my son Henry was home from school for the second day in a row after the pipe-bomb explosion on Tuesday which left a young man dead and the whole town wondering, "What happened?"
Henry and I went to breakfast after his two younger siblings dragged themselves to school, yelling, "It's so not fair! Why does he get to stay home AGAIN?"
We stopped at Gamestop and Blick Art to get a few things for a care package for my nephew who just had surgery.
We even hung out on the front porch, talking about everything...and nothing. It was an extension of yesterday's surreal day. The dog was driving us crazy, so Henry and I walked him to Larimer Park to play fetch.
At one point, I chucked the ball across the field and it landed in a cluster of bushes. As Henry disappeared into the foliage, I stopped in my tracks.
What if there's another pipe bomb in there? Have the police checked all the parks?
Henry emerged with the orange and blue ball, and I began breathing.
Damn him, I thought of the headless man, for scaring me in my own neighborhood.
But then, we started to get some glimpses of Colin Dalebroux. First, a photo. Clean cut, smiling. One of my kids saw it on the computer last night and said, "THAT'S the guy?"
The tone conveyed exactly what we were all thinking. This guy doesn't look like a jerk. He looks fresh and decent and young.
According to a statement Colin Dalebroux's family just released, they believe he committed suicide after a 15-year battle with depression.
I thought I'd feel relieved with a confirmation that the "bomber" at my son's middle school wasn't out to get anyone else, just himself.
But now, I'm feeling hollow. Not for myself or for our community as we try to get back to "normal", but for the family that sent their son out into the world, knowing he's not coming back.