He was always so funny, and kidding around , they said, Why should we have taken this joke seriously . Because suicide is never a joke . Saturday morning, while I was overseas, my son put a gun to his head and ended his life. That bullet ended much of my life as well, but it s more like the pain of losing your sight while being an artist, or losing the ability to hear while creating music. Or losing one s legs while running the Boston marathon.
Breathing is a major effort, getting up in the morning even more so.
Life loses it s color, and becomes black and white. Aside from the memories and reminders of our time together, small pieces of his life continue to give rise to renewed pain. Like detritus from the bottom of a pond, small objects related to him float up to the surface from time to time. Like the school newspaper doing an article on suicide, and assigning hypothetical behaviors to him, things that never happened, but the author of the article was certain that any one person could have prevented his death . The article was not supposed be about him, but for some reason, the three quarter inch headline using his name belied that fact.