Home » Erica R. Killed Herself

"Erica R. killed herself!" When my wife came into the room and announced it she looked horrible. It stunned me, too. I just stared at her. "Becky texted me about it," she said. She looked like she was going to cry. I didn't know what to say. When she left I couldn't get back to what I was doing. I felt that dark emptiness you get inside when you've suffered a loss. I just sat there for a few minutes. Waves of melancholy and sadness surged over me and added a dark aura to life itself.

Erica R. was a neighbor. She must have been about 28, when she died. I hadn't seen or heard of her in quite a few years. I can still picture her as the pretty, little, yellow haired girl running around, yelling and playing in the yard. She was a couple years younger than my youngest daughter. They were friends for awhile. Erica was the littlest of the bunch and often the loudest to make up for it. I liked her. I thought she was a cutie. She was my pitcher in neighborhood whiffle ball games. She couldn't hit, was too little to steal a base, but she could under-hand that ball for a strike almost every time.

I couldn't help but think of her parents. They moved away a few years ago. I consciously struggled to not put myself in their place. It was too horrible. The tragedy was too deep to contemplate.  I wanted to cry for those people I once knew. About ten years ago, Erica's older brother, Brian, hanged himself in their garage. He was about twenty, when he died. His parents found him when they came home one evening.  The door rolled up, and there he was, in the headlights, hanging,   dead. I remember seeing the ambulance and police car lights that night. And now, his little sister, the cute girl with the yellow hair; Erica R. killed herself, too.

Brian was about my son's age. He was always in trouble. He was probably going to jail that last time. I had several run-ins with him as a kid and teen. He drove his parents mad. I always thought they seemed like nice people, but I don't really know. My son didn't know when I asked him what Brian's problem was. Understanding the working of our own mind is difficult enough. When it comes to someone else, we can only always wonder. We will never really understand why Brian and Erica R. killed themselves.

What I cannot create, I should not take away. To some faiths, suicide is sin. To others it is an honor. For some there is explanation, others can't understand. I am with the latter. There resides within me too much that I do not own. That gift given to all with sentience, the knowledge that I have a soul. That tiny bit of Light and Spirit that every man sees when eyes turn inward and the truth is admitted. I still cling to this shell as it begins to creak and groan. I revel in the wisdom that only time provides. I think, I believe, I wonder.

When I ran the dogs this evening there were no children at the school. The swings hung motionless. The climbing bars stood stark and lonely. The un-limed base paths were ugly streaks of brown. I crossed that one corner of the field, where twenty years ago I placed small stones and paper as bases for the neighborhood whiffle ball games. I paused for a moment on the spot where my  pitcher used to stand, to flip a perfect strike, and giggle when she saw the batters fan. I peered through the thickening grove that's beginning to turn green with spring's rebirth. I saw the rows of daffodils along the side of that terrible garage.

I sighed and moved on.  I caught up to my old dog as he hobbled along.  I rubbed my aching shoulder and elbow. I turned back, stared for a moment at my boot prints in the muddy trail, thinking. A squirrel scurried up a limb when my other dog ran by sniffing for a rabbit. A pair of ducks quacked, paddled down the stream, then flushed when they saw the dogs. I could see a family unloading groceries down the street. The mother had big pots of flowers. The young boy and girl ran back and forth carrying bags in from the car.

I breathed in the chilly air. It still seemed brown, not spring yet. I took in several deep breaths, expanding my chest until it ached. I thought about my own life, pulsing through my veins. I filled my lungs again, just once, to no one ... no, not to no one, to the world, I shouted: 
   "Erica R. killed herself!"