The hermitage is empty. Even the ghosts have left. They left without saying a word. We are alone. The cat is on the bed. She contemplates the moment and appears to come to a conclusion.
When a son dies it rips your heart out. When a son kills himself it rips you all to pieces. Grief has been joined by anger and guilt. Anger because a young man of twenty would throw away the gift of life. Guilt because you didn’t pick up that last phone call.
You wake with a start. Your heart is racing with fear. You reach across the bed to touch your wife. “Are you okay, honey?” A brief whimper escapes your lips. She’s not there, of course.