A Dream.

A few days before I learned what hap­pened, I had a dream about you. When I awoke, my heart felt like a bird flap­ping its wings inside the cage of my ribs.

The details had van­ished. Only anx­i­ety remained.

I gasped when I learned what hap­pened. I sud­denly remem­bered the lit­tle details, the things that never made it into the clin­i­cal notes: You liked your cof­fee black. You read the Wall Street Jour­nal. You missed dri­ving your sports car.

Where did you kill your­self? Did you get a motel room? Were you out­side? What time of day was it?

You cer­tainly planned this. When did you make the final deci­sion? Did you waver? Did you want to waver?

They say that there are two kinds of psy­chi­a­trists: The kind who have never had a patient com­mit sui­cide, and the kind who have had patients kill themselves.

I now belong to the sec­ond group. We all join the sec­ond group at some point.

I wish you hadn’t killed yourself.

I thank you for what you have taught me, both in life and in death.

I wish you had the peace in life that you thought was only avail­able in death.

May peace be with you now.