Before the night ends I must write this. I cannot let the clock complete its circle, and not mark the day, because three years ago my son died. Right after it happened I would say, would it be easier if he'd died fighting in a war, or was in a wreck, or a hunting accident, instead of killing himself? I've beaten myself again and again, imagining his last thoughts. Questions like those out numbered answers then, and sometimes still do.

In trying to understand the why of it, a daughter located books that might help us, and this is some of what I read in Ann Smolin and John Guinan's "Healing After The Suicide Of A Loved One":
"The old adage, "Time heals all wounds" is not necessarily true for survivors of suicide."

"Time is necessary for healing, but time alone is not enough."

In another part of the book they add:

"Healing from a loss by suicide is a complex process. First you must come to terms with the fact of suicide. Once you have accomplished that, you must still grieve."

"Do not expect it to be easy. Do not expect the trip to be quick. You will lose many things along the way." "preconceived ideas, old ways of thinking, notions about explanations, guilt and retribution." and it adds:

"You will gain many others: sensitivity, understanding, compassion, and forgiveness of your self and others."

Today I'm more able to pull happier memories of him out of the past, but for a long time I couldn't. With eight members in our family, each dealt with his dying differently. I'd think time was being kinder, then remember something about him, and it was like the aching pain started again. Sometimes I just needed to talk to somebody about him, but the boundaries about it were not very clear. Was the sadness of it running out of time, with no way to put more money in a meter?

I say all this, not to be morbid, but perhaps to help others see that there is no exactness of this, except his death. What helped most was kind, caring hearts who set down their many words, and simply touched my shoulder, or maybe gave a hug, and listened for a while.

My son could be difficult to know. What some perceived as selfish occupation with himself, and not much regard for you or me, was probably only his miserable world, so much so he chose to end it. He and a huge number of others did that in 2004. Statistics say at least thirty thousand die a year, with a hundred thousand more trying to, and each year it happens again. None of us ever think it will touch our family but it does, over and over.

Students in schools, and colleges have a high rate of it, as do those who live alone, and the elderly, too.

His name was Jerry. He had big dark brown eyes. He was tall and slim, and used to wish he could live in Montana, and for a little while he did. He so loved hunting, and photography. I have a picture he shot of a rose. Like himself it was all alone, surrounded by dark ugly leaves and not enough of the sun. But it's all I have to remember him by, so I don't dwell on the leaves or its thorns, I just gaze at that velvety rose.