Robert Hunter answered the door. I threw myself into his arms, he hugged me mechanically. Stepping back, I noticed that he looked pale, drained.

"What's wrong Rob? You look like somebody died."

"He's gone Rose . . . "

"Hey wait, calm down. Now, who's gone, what are you talking about?"

"He's gone, dead. Jerry's dead." Then the great Robert Hunter collapsed on me and cried.

Eventually, Robert lead me inside. Bobby Weir explained as best he could that it was a heart attack. I was in shock, I needed to play my guitar, release, escape, music. They must be lying, a joke, a big joke, but I knew they wouldn't do that to me.

I opened my guitar case and took out my guitar, in the process, my song fell out. Bob picked it up and skimmed it, I didn't notice.

"Hey, what's this?", he asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Just words, ink on paper, it doesn't matter anymore."

"This is good, really good. Jerry will love this . . . I mean, Jerry would have loved this. You wrote it."

I tried to speak, to say something, somehow I thought if I could just talk to them, my friends, it could get better. But the words wouldn't come. There was nothin' to say anymore. Burying my face in the soft brown fabric of an old couch, I cried softly. No one went to comfort me, and this was good. They all knew as well as I did that there was nothin' anyone could do, so we sat in silence. The dust from the cushions clouded my senses. No, there was nothing anyone could do anymore.

Rose would have been crying now had she any tears left. There was so much to cry about really, more than there should have been in one lifetime. Here, on this park bench, a strange empty feeling came over her. A few months ago, this feeling would have been strange, alien. Now, it was almost a second nature to her. Strange, she thought that this feeling suddenly felt alien again. But when Rose was sure that her soul would implode from the empty core that burned inside her, something else happened. It was an old almost ancient sensation, as if a giant hand had been laid on her back. It reminded her of what a baby feels when it is first held by its mother, protected, warm. But when she looked up there was nothing around but the staggered scenery of a San Francisco side street.

It broke her heart to look around and not see a single familiar face. And then out of the corner of her eye, Rose thought she saw a familiar shadow. Passing it off as another pigeon her other thoughts quickly reoccupied her mind. There was nothing left for her to do, but keep going.

The campground was in disarray. Everyone was crying, holding each other, failing to bring anyone any hope. We had all lost something, our father, our brother. Signs were being posted all over saying,"Jerry Was God," they were right.