After Heidi committed suicide and a few weeks passed,
letting it sink in; and after the wife and I sat at home
for 5 straight nights, barely talking to each other; and
after sharing a bottle of wine, finally letting the emotion
wash over us like soap bubbles, she said,

“You’re going to write about
this and make
sense of it all, aren’t you?”

“Eventually,” I said.

She was only half right, though.
I did eventually write about it,
but, like most suicides, I
was unsuccessful in
making any sense of it.
 
Instead, I wrote about
sunshine slanting through
the window,

each photon
a vow broken

each floating speck of dust
a memory forgotten.