I crossed the Seine one night on the Pont des Arts (laden with thousands of pad locks, inscribed with messages of love) while the full moon hung in a gauzy web of clouds above me, the water beneath shimmering under the amber streetlights. Gratitude broke over me like rain. And then just as quickly, I felt guilty.
When someone ends their own life, there may be a note, or a reason that is given -- but for everyone who cares for them there will always be that terrible thought in the back of your mind that maybe -- just maybe -- if I had just done...? The blanks that you fill in at the end of that sentence can be endless.