Carl died yesterday.

Jeff, Bret and I pulled into the parking lot at the same time yesterday, so we walked together to our office building. On the way, we saw Carl sitting in his car, his head leaning back against the headrest, his face towards the ceiling, completely immobile. We thought he was sleeping. It’s strange, but cars parked along Stewart Street often have sleeping people in them. So although it seemed a little odd (Carl usually had lots of energy in the morning), we didn’t think too much of it.

Mark was the first to leave in the afternoon, and he called the office to tell us that Carl had died. He said there were police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck surrounding Carl’s car. I immediately pictured Carl “sleeping” earlier. We had walked right past him, unaware that it hadn’t been Carl–it had been just his body.

It’s really strange that Carl will never again be outside our office snapping pictures of the trains as they go by. As bizarre as his behavior usually seemed, I realize now that his presence on the 18th Street bridge had become a regular part of my mornings. Today it seemed sadly lonely walking from my parking spot to our building.

We’re not sure how Carl died–maybe it was a heart attack, maybe it was a stroke, maybe it really was a “natural death” that occurred while he was sleeping. Regardless of the physical way it happened, it seems oddly comforting that Carl died the way he did. To him, it had been a morning exactly like any other. He had been in a place of deep significance and familiarity. It seems as though he had died peacefully while going about his regular routine. I wish he hadn’t been alone, and yet that’s the way Carl seemed to roll and maybe that’s the way he liked it. His passion was trains, and it seems right that he breathed his last while surrounded by them.