Suicide was something adults did

Suicide was something adults did when they got in a really bad mood. Failure at suicide resulted in hospitalization, which was shameful and thus a secret. The adult had simply “gone to Toronto.” Sharing such a secret made children friends.

My father had a gun with which he discouraged premarital sex. In those days they had violence but no sex on TV and Dad liked TV. Because of magazines like Esquire and Playboy, not to mention puberty, I thought I’d like sex, and a friendship with Mary evolved.

I always liked it when Mary’s ma was in Toronto because Mary could stay out late. When I finally turned sixteen and got a driver’s license, she could stay out late and far away.
 

Finally I went to college in Montreal. Finally Mary’s ma succeeded at suicide in the kitchen. Mary was attending the local college in our hometown. She came home for lunch and found her mother.
My father had many guns and many medals for shooting. Mary’s mother shot herself. Not long after my father got rid of all his guns.
 

Mary was my first love. Mary’s mother was my first suicide. Since then many friends and colleagues have committed suicide. Perhaps it’s a bad side effect of poetry. Mary and I wrote poetry. Or maybe I attract sad people who want to die. I wish I could cheer people up.