Figuring things out

“She committed suicide a week prior to our thirtieth anniversary. Our oldest daughter had died of leukemia a couple years earlier. Holly took it extra hard. We drifted apart. We’d parse our words. Nothing was natural anymore: ‘Do we talk this way?’ ‘Do we laugh at this moment?’ ‘ Do we even have a right to laugh?’ But I still thought we were doing OK. Things weren’t like they used to be. But I still thought things were OK. We rented a hotel room for our thirtieth anniversary. I was supposed to meet her there after work. She overdosed on pills before I got there. I don’t know why she did it that way. She said in her note that she wasn’t angry, but I don’t know why she did it that way. I fell apart. I started drinking a lot and doing cocaine. I lost my job. One day I was giving a presentation after being up all night on drugs, and I just started hallucinating. I thought one of the clients was Holly. I stopped the presentation and started calling her name. The company was nice about it. They gave me a nice severance package. But I gave all the money to my kids. I’ve been on the streets ever since. It’s been eight years. My kids have tried to give me the money back but I won’t take it. I ride the subways at night. If it’s warm enough, I sleep on a bench. I read a little. I write a little. I go to the soup line in the morning. I’m just existing. I wasn’t a good husband. I wasn’t a good father. And now I’m doing penance.”

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