After someone commits suicide you begin to filter through everything you know about them in the hope of gleaning all that remains good and beautiful and true.
At first, this proves difficult: there isn’t much left but murk and silt. But you find yourself returning again and again, panning in the stream of memories because flecks of gold begin to appear and the mere weight of them feels so precious.
I became familiar with this habit of disinterment long before my brother chose suicide. I say “chose” because in David’s case it was an idea he had talked about and lived with for some time, the act becoming a final expression of personal agency in a world that had seemingly closed all of its doors on him.
And yet, despite his choice, his memory, our kinship, abides. [Read more…]