Long as I Can See the Light

"Put a candle in the window. I feel I've got to move. Though I'm gone, gone, I'll be comin' home soon, long as I can see the light." - Creedence Clearwater Revival

You know, you never really know a man until you clean out the top drawer of his dresser and read his suicide note. Six years ago this spring, I stood and read my grandfather's. It was not addressed to me, nor was it addressed to my mother. It was addressed to a woman neither of us had ever met. We, the family, the ones who showed up to clean up the crime scene, clean up the legal details and carry the grief, got one sentence. Something to the effect of, "I'm sorry for the mess I'm leaving behind for Dawna and Susie." Awesome, I thought, holding the note and talking to the detective with the concerned head tilt. Thanks for the mention. The detective asked me if I wanted the gun back.

No. Thanks. You can keep the gun.

I often hear "Guns don't kill people, people kill people." Shit. Depression, vodka and guns kill people. I spent years of my life begging him to get rid of the guns. Please, please, don't do anything foolish, promise me? He promised me. In the end, the depression, and the guns, won. I could not save his life, none of us could, no matter how hard we all tried. Suicide is a long twilight for the survivors. Even though you know you did all you could, you will always wonder if you could have done more. While I was cleaning out the top drawer and trying to explain to my mother why a man would inject a Viagra speedball with a syringe, the NRA called. In no uncertain terms, I told them about the cold, dead hand we just pried a gun from. They were not amused. Frankly, neither was I.

The funeral was sparsely attended. When death is suicide you really find out who your friends are. We interned his ashes in the family plot on the Oregon Coast, next to my grandmother, who he never got over, and who I can guarantee you was as pissed as we were. "Family" members, such as they are, or were, couldn't be bothered. Of course, he did have a way of alienating people, so I suppose they have their own stories. I think there were six of us. Me, mom and dad, Grandma, Uncle Jack, one friend and the preacher. The preacher was a stand in, not the one we talked to. He had "an emergency" come up. Oh. The stand-in was failing miserably. I did what I naturally do. I stepped in, resuscitated the situation and made everyone feel better, inviting people to share their favorite stories of this wonderful, wonderful man who had a bad end. He was worth so much more than that. He deserved better.

He was a good man, he was his own man, we loved him well, and commend his soul to God. As trite as it may seem, I still light a candle, and pray he finds his way home.