suicide = homicide.

He called his daughters to tell them (in his own way) he loved them right before he shot himself. It was a Sunday afternoon. Silence and church bells and blood and death followed an assertion of love. His was not the only heartbeat which ceased. His life was not the only life smothered. When his body is laid in the earth, it won't be just his spirit and his dreams that will suffer decay.

I don't think of you as I grieve your death. I think of them: your two beautiful daughters who now must contemplate futility, scarcity, and selfishness every time they hear the word 'daddy.' I write for them--for Caitie, whose intelligence, love, and searching inevitably changes thoses she speaks to; for Megan, committed, dependable, and brave.

In a way, in a very sad, very gut-wrenchingly true way, you have killed them too. The gunshot will not only echo in the soil by your grave; it will echo in the hearts of those still living, still fighting for hope to be more than stoic idealism. It will echo on the day the cap is thrown in the air, the instrument becomes a lover, the door closes from the outside. It will echo when they hold their Bibles, their children, when they hold each other.

It was a Sunday afternoon for you. For them, it is every day.

Your choice brought death to many others. Your body was not the only one found, broken, torn open, and lifeless. And it is not you I pray for tonight. It is not you I cry for. It is for those you claimed to love. It is for the living dead. I don't pray for your resurrection. I pray for theirs.