“Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.” Roberto Bolaño, The Savage Detectives

For a long time the topic of this column was something I couldn’t bear the pain of trying to understand, let alone write about.

The last time I saw my friend, confidante, fellow traveler, collaborator and advisor on most matters moral and literary, he wished me a happy birthday, bought me dinner and a drink, then disappeared.

Two weeks later, I would be on my way to the offices of Seacoast Media Group, nursing an energy drink and plotting for Thursday's deadline when the call came.

It was a business contact; a Stratham local I was friendly with, but hardly expected breaking or hard news from. I turned down the volume on the radio and mustered my most pleasant pre-8 a.m. greeting.

"Erik, how well do you know Cody Laplante?" the voice asked trepidatiously.

My heart did things no heart should be able to withstand when I heard those words, as I knew immediately – even if I didn't want to believe it – what would follow.

The heroin scourge currently carving its path through the Seacoast, and that I had watched my friend wrestle against for years, with varying degrees of success, had one more knotch to etch in its sword. One more victory to claim against the forces of goodness and creativity and life we look for so often in vain in the daily headlines.

Cody was gone at age 26. No longer would I find myself chortling after receipt of one of his notoriously inscrutable, enthusiastic text messages in the middle of work. Never again would I explore the back streets of Buenos Aires or ride one of its notorious colectivos with him.

In writing this column – difficult as it was – it was my, and Seacoast Sunday's, goal to bring a human face to the epidemic with which we are compelled far too often to fill our columns.

It's often far too easy in these circumstances to look back on what one could have done differently – thinking one might have had the words to draw a friend close and away from the edge. It’s just as easy to demonize and dehumanize that which we don’t understand or don’t want to.

The truth is, when it comes to this drug, there's very little anyone outside the individual can do. Cody was not, as some expect of artists or those addicted to drugs, relentlessly dark or tormented by unfathomable demons. Sure, he had plenty of down times and plenty of insights into this perplexing world that could certainly ruin one's day if thought about too much, but in general he had a lust for life, a spontaneity that could border on sprightly and a tremendously generous spirit.

He also had a weakness. A vice, as most of us who count ourselves among the humans have. His got the best of him and stole him away from a world that loved him.

Cody John Laplante was a truly rare breed. The poetry he wrote was absolutely singular – filled with sex, drugs and a passionate wrestling against the absurdities of modern life. He travelled the world with an exuberance that I could only try my best to keep up with.

He was relentlessly critical, most of all of himself. His criticisms would cut deep on occasion, especially for someone who loved him, but, as I said at his memorial service, he was usually right. The tearful smiles and laughter this remark drew assured me I was right.

Foster’s Daily Democrat Managing Editor Mary Pat Rowland had it more right than she knew in her April 26 editorial titled “Time to stop bashing heroin addicts.”

“And to all the haters out there, please think twice about the people you are bashing on social media. They are someone’s son, brother or friend. Addiction is a tragedy, and commenting about its victims is not a sport,” she wrote.

Everyone lucky enough to have known Cody knew what a small, though ultimately lethal, element of his personality his addiction was. He was an artist, a brother, a son and a thinker first and foremost. It was fortunate that at his memorial services the subject of heroin was never brought up. Instead his life’s work in the Seacoast arts community, his warmth and his wit were celebrated.

It’s been almost two months since he was taken away, and a quick perusal of social media on any given day will show just how raw the wound remains for so many of us. It’s good to know I’m not alone in not being quite back to business as usual. His parents, whose home on the Merrimack River I have countless fond memories of, are two of the strongest people I know. I think of them every day.

None of us will ever truly know or understand what was in Cody’s mind when he made his last, fatal mistake. Luckily, most of us will never understand what it is like to live with such an addiction either. However, it is imperative, one of our sacred charges as human beings, that we try to understand and care for one other.

If you are experiencing addiction and by chance come across this column, I personally implore you to consider the lives of those around you, as well as your innate worth as a human being. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it, there are countless people who love and depend on you if you’ll only take a good hard look. Treat yourself and your family and friends with care, and seek help. Not only is there no shame in it, there is tremendous courage in it, and your own life may not be the only one you’re saving.

Those in need of help or who know someone that is can find a wealth of local resources at www.nhtreatment.org.

Wrong Brain, the Seacoast arts collective Cody was a founding member of, and which has recently been officially designated a state nonprofit, will hold a celebration of Cody’s life and work on July 26 at the Buoy Gallery in Kittery, Maine. The collective will be publishing a zine dedicated to the issue of heroin addiction and recovery. Contact me if you would like more information about or would like to contribute in some way to this event.

Erik Hawkins is a staff writer for Seacoast Media Group's Exeter News-Letter. He can be reached at ehawkins@seacoastonline.com.