“I
grew up just the same as her,” Brian often said, “and I didn’t kill myself.”
Sometimes
he sounded proud of himself, sometimes angry with her. Increasingly now, as he
grew older, he sounded confused. He’s started using polite euphemisms for ‘kill
myself.’ Take my life. End it all. Bow out.
“Bow
wow?” I said once.
Brian
doesn’t think I should joke, but she was my sister too.
My
son used to tell me all the silver linings that clouds had. “Some people say
that there are beautiful sunsets after a nuclear winter. When a bird dies its
body nourishes the soil that keeps a million flowers alive.” I thought he was
such an optimist. My little trooper, always finding the bright side to
everything.
It
was Brian who pointed out that he was spending every waking moment thinking
about nuclear winters and dead birds, desperately trying to find the good
things that come out of bad.
“You
should watch him,” Brian said. “She used to do that too. You don’t remember
because you were too young.”
Brian
thinks my son will bow out.
Suicide,
my son tells me, often brings families closer together.
Christopher James
sutcliffechris@hotmail.com
The 158 Pound Marriage
John Irving