I love the dead, too, because I have no choice. Because there are so many of them. Because in the spring of 2011, when the Cavs weren’t winning a damn thing, I buried Cam’s ashes under a sycamore tree in Cleveland, which I only knew was a sycamore tree because of how Cam would sometimes point to a tree that looked like it, and then point to a scar running across the side of his arm, curved sharply, like a wicked grin, and he’d say Sycamore tree fucked me up when I was a kid. Fuck those things. And so it was decided, bury him at the feet of his one true enemy, maybe he’d grow again there, grow
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