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".  

Layers of Paint

A letter to my little cottage on 14th Street:

Dear Home,

A friend of mine suggested I write this letter. She said when people get ready to sell their houses, writing a letter can help bring closure.   So here goes...

You should know that when my real estate agent pulled up to your curb, I hadn’t even stepped out of the car before telling her I’d take the house.  I knew you were the one.  She insisted I see the inside, though, before making a decision.  After stepping through the threshold of the doorway, I repeated “I’ll take it”.  She implored me to look at the entire house.  So, I walked through and eventually made my way into both bedrooms where I silently picked out my room which looked out into the fenced backyard, beautifully lined with oleanders blooming with pink flowers.  The yard was lush, green and boasted five grapefruit and two orange citrus trees, all with trunks that were painted pristine white.  I signed the contract within the hour.

As a kid, my mom and I moved around a lot.  The longest we ever stayed in one place was five years.  We’ve been together for fifteen years!  That’s the longest I’ve lived in one place my entire life.  This is also the only place that has ever felt like home.

You’ve seen me grow from a young and newly divorced woman who couldn’t even cook for herself into the mature adult that I am today...who still can’t cook for herself.  But, you know I make the effort ~ and, yes, a crock pot does so count.  

We’ve been through a lot during the years.  You received a fresh coat of paint on the walls after every storm that brewed in my life;  every layer, every color, was a witness to the tears, pain and struggle but with each new color came the promise of hope and a new beginning.

And, there were always new beginnings!  We’ve shared so much laughter, happiness and peace together.   I cherish the fond memories that were created in this very space; memories of all the pets, friends and loved ones that made this house a home.

And there were tragic times.  You and I would see my mom and Aaron draw their last breath in the bedrooms of this home.   

And, another layer of paint was added to your walls with each goodbye; a new color...the hope of yet another new beginning.

My dear home, I have added the last layer of paint.  

I never thought I’d leave here; I thought we’d be together forever.  But here I sit, writing a goodbye letter through the tears.  You’ve been so good to me; this home has seen so much laughter, love, contentment and peace.  I don’t want you to ever forget that.  I know I won’t.  You will always have a piece of my heart.  And, my wish and prayer is that whomever moves into this house will love it and cherish it as much as I have; that they will enjoy good health, happiness and make fond memories here.  

You no longer need to carry the weight of all your layers of paint with me here.  I am in search of new walls; a blank canvas on which to write my next chapter...a story that I hope is filled with hope and a new beginning.