At first, I thought I’d killed you. The Friday before, you texted to tell me that you were going to drown yourself in the Monongahela River. It was late Spring. You were drinking again.
“Go to the ER,” I told you. “Please don’t give up.” But, I didn’t offer to sit with you or hold your hand till the pain stopped. Instead, I just imagined you wandering along the trail by the river’s edge, staring into the murky rush.
“I’m okay,” you texted finally, three hours later.Read More