I am 12 years old.

My dad picks me up from swim practice

chlorine hair

skin - chilled leather

I am staring out the window

not looking at Dad

the bulky quiet is suffocating me

see

dad’s best friend Scott committed suicide

at the age of 45

I don’t know what to picture

so I stare out the window

and try to figure out how to say sorry.

 

I am 10.

Scott slides an omelet onto my plate on a Saturday morning.

He has a handsome smile and a dishtowel on his shoulder

he is laughing with my parents about how he

hates the texture of oranges

I can picture this -

I am looking up at him.

 

I am 15.

Ms. Bressman is telling us about Erdos, a Hungarian mathematician

so famous they keep track of the degrees of

collaborative separation you are from him.

Ms Bressman is an Erdos number 5.

She says, “you can be an Erdos number 6, if you like”

And like that, I am connected.

 

I am 17.

I am about to graduate high school

Dad’s student Eamonn

chooses his own death

as he waits for a train to crush him

he was my age.

Dad is proud they don’t hide his depression…

so what.

What is the point -

he’s still dead.

 

I am still 17.

Dad is a Scott number one

I am a Scott number one

Dad is an Eamonn number two

and by Erdos number logic

I am an Eamonn number three.

What is the sum of these numbers

What type of grief sits at the other end of that equal sign.

 

This is 17.

NJ Transit says about Eamonn’s suicide:

“the trespasser

made no attempt to remove himself from the path.”

No.

Eamonn made several attempts.

He spent time with his family.

He saw a counselor. He played with his dog.

He just couldn’t

get out of the way

and his name was Eamonn, not “trespasser.”

 

I am 16.

I am sobbing into my chicken pot pie

telling my mom that my best friend wants to commit suicide

now I am 19

my sister, 14,

has been crying all week

her best friend is thinking about suicide.

I am wondering when we all got so fucking sad

I am trying to figure out how to say sorry.

 

I am 19.

I am finally asking Mom how to picture Scott -

I picture:

Scott is at an open house for a high rise building,

complimentary mimosa in hand

Scott is not following the group to the next room,

he is sprinting towards a window

hopping over the balcony of the 23^rd floor

Scott is flying

falling

Scott is crying

Scott is dying

See Scott land.

See Scott splatter.

See Scott make a fucking mess on the sidewalk

I still do not know

what Scott was thinking

did he know he would snarl traffic for hours.

 

This is 19.

I look at the scars on my friend’s wrist

I tell her -

I am so glad I am not her number

I know this.

You are not a trespasser here.

You are welcome.