Those last two words....

There exists, in all 50 states, a Survivors of Suicide (SOS) group for those of us traumatized by suicide.  Arizona has six chapters, with as little as eight or as many as twenty people in attendance.  We sit in folding chairs that have been positioned into what the facilitator calls a “Healing Circle”; a safe place to share and cry.   A tray filled with several tealight candles sits on top of a small wooden box within the center of our circle along with a book of matches.  Some light a candle in memory of their loved one. I didn’t - the thought of extinguishing the flame at the conclusion of the meeting made me sad.

Everyone in the room looked normal - I could find myself standing in line with any one of them at Sprouts.  But a woman in her early 50’s caught my attention.  She was dressed in a business suit, her I.D card tucked into the plastic sleeve attached to a black silk lanyard still around her neck; her brown hair was neatly pulled back and her accessories well thought out.  She exuded confidence.  I sat across from her in shredded jean shorts, a Harley Davidson shirt, flips and a baseball cap.  We appear different but our grief is the same.  When she spoke, her voice cracked, her lip and chin quivered...”My husband....he....committed suicide three months ago....”   I leaned forward in my seat, resting my forearms on my thighs, my hands coming together, my fingers interlocking and my head lowered, my gaze upon the ground right underneath my feet...I couldn't look her; her emotion was too penetrating.

“....he left a note...”.  

My upper body and head jolted upwards and I stared intently at the woman.  Simultaneously, I saw that my furtive movement caused some people in the room to quickly glance in my direction.  I didn’t break my stare.

She found a note.   What did it say?  What did that note say?  Tell me what the note....

“...I mean, I knew he was depressed but...since then it has been really difficult.  Our kids live out of state....”

Wait, what?  Go back....what did the note say?  

“...I found a piece of jewelry that I know his daughter would have wanted...”

She made no further mention of the note.  No one else in the room spoke about finding notes, either.  I’d learn through my own research, that a mere 32% of people who commit suicide leave notes.  

I get I was there when it happened.  I get that a note doesn’t make what occurred any more obvious.  

But, I still want a note.

The end result is the same whether I saw it happen or found him seconds after hearing the gun go off.  Regardless, some people get notes.  I'm not "some people".  His mom, dad, brother and best friend - they're also not "some people." We didn't get a note.

I still ache for his explanation.  I want to know what he would have written in a note.  I want to be able to read the words “I love you” whenever I want.  I don’t have anything physical to hold in my hands.  A note would have been the "goodbye" that I never received.

Yet, logically I know a note could have left me with more questions than answers.  And, nothing that Aaron wrote would have been justification enough to end his own life.  

But my stubborness and non-acceptance wants a damn note.  Instead, all I'm left with are the last two words he spoke prior to the gun going off...

Those last two words...which weren't "good bye".