Suicide

By E.K. Blackmer

Suicide appears pitiful at my doorstep and I invite it in. We sit at an oak table beneath a white light. In the glare of the bulb, Suicide looks monstrous and child-like. Instantly, I relate and lean forward. With my fingertip I poke its face—first left, then right, examining the contrast with an open mind. I mold its features. With insistent patience Suicide sits on the edge of my bed. Suicide is silent. It’s tolerant. Quietly reflecting my moods and foibles. It endures my protestations and repudiations, until one day its presence feels familial, and wearily I whisper, “I do.”