The woman at the desk, the one who needs knee surgery but can't afford it, the woman who once told me she wants to die at 80 years old, that woman looked at me differently today. Lilith and I were heading back from the water fountain on this airless, humid day when the mountains were excruciatingly beautiful, as they often are in blue sky and cloud. "Thank you," she said. "My brother committed suicide. 1979." I was wearing a Walk to Prevent Suicide teeshirt. "It was work related. He was a policeman, single, 27 years old. He was sued for something. A year later, he was fully exonerated." She said her son is also a policeman. "But he has a wife, two kids, and a mortgage; it's a different deal then. When he was in the police academy and they'd all go to the range after class, he had to go home and take care of the kids. He took a $1K per month pay cut to do it, but his wife encouraged him. He wanted to." What was his name? I asked, almost as an afterthought. She told me. I told her I would think of him on the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention - Hawaii Chapter walk this Saturday. She was now on the phone, but she looked at me and pointed her finger at her forehead.
When I got home, a neighbor texted to ask if I knew about the Charlie Kirk shooting.
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