"My Father Committed Suicide This Morning"
“My father committed suicide this morning,” are the piercing words I heard last Tuesday afternoon one minute into the conversation when I called to say hello and check in on a dear friend.
NO! You’ve gotta be kidding me!
Suicide! There's no freakin' way!
This is not real. You did not just say suicide?!
What the hell! is all I could say because never in a million years did I ever expect to hear someone on the other end of the phone tell me that my friend was gone. But he was. He was gone. And for reasons only my friend knows, and the rest of us are left to grapple with, the idea of going on another moment was all of a sudden off the table. Like an unrelenting runner on a track, since last Tuesday a million things have raced through my mind. The questions have been making their laps around the circumference of my otherwise steady mind in pursuit of answers. Nothing slows them. The pursuit is as intense as it is bleak when another lap of questions present themselves . . .
Why did he? How could he?