I didn’t know James that well. His family lived two blocks from mine, each with six kids of about the same age. He was older than me and younger than my brother. It’s funny how that can make a difference whether a friendship grows.
James was tall and slender and tan, with straight brown hair. He always wore low-cut black socks, which I noticed because I only wore crew cut and at church I’d see his ankles.
He was smart— into rockets and fireworks and programming Christmas light displays. He was going to be an engineer. He was quiet and he was funny. And he took his own life in his early twenties.
At the funeral, every speaker described his kindness and intelligence and his love for his family. The fact that he killed himself was like a silently screaming, inescapable counterpoint, unacknowledged and overwhelming every happy reminiscence. Only by the final speaker was the topic of suicide named, dragged out into the open and looked in the eye.
We build lives together in …
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