Day one 7/18/12:

I crawled into our door-less, hoodless jeep with a smile as my dad grabbed the keys. He got in, a bit more carefully than my child self had. I jumped in his lap, knowing he would allow me to steer us to the neighborhood pool. He set my hands on the wheel, stepping lightly on the gas pedal. I held on tightly as he helped my hands steer. Looking back, I wouldn't trade these moments for anything.

Day two 11/7/12:

I heard the back door crack and immediately jumped up from the couch, running to give my father a hug. He dropped all his bags as I leapt into his arms, planting a kiss on my cheek. “I love you, pumpkin.” he said with a smile.  That was the last “I love you” I heard from him. I wish I could hug him once more, say those three words to him once more.

Day three 11/12/12:

Eight year old me shyly stepped down the front stairs. I looked into the group of my mothers friends who sat in the parlor. Some of them I recognized, some of them I didnt. I tried to blink away the tears as the whole room turned to look at me. “Just a moment” my mother reassured them as she took my hand and led me back to my bedroom. “What's the matter? You were supposed to be asleep.” she said, seemingly angrily. I explained to her how much I miss him, how I didn't understand why he had to go, why he wanted to go. She immediately sighed, telling me that she didn't have answers for me this time.

I decided that pretending I was strong didn't matter anymore. As tears flowed down my face, I realized the boulders of grief I had been holding on my shoulders the past few days. My mother played “Father Daughter” by Paul Simon as we sat in my childhood bedroom, crying all the tears we had bottled up the past few days. She said a prayer, I wish I had known then how truly powerful a simple prayer could be.

Day four 3/18/13:

I looked over my brothers shoulder, confused on why he would be searching that up. I noticed all morning that he'd been out of it, but that seemed to be the usual these days. We drove back from church that morning, a quiet ride because him and my mother had been fighting all morning.

Later that day, I had been sitting in the kitchen with my mom as I saw red trucks and black cars begin to fly past our quiet street. I leaned in closer to the window, realizing that these fire trucks and police cars had been pulling into our driveway. With a shaky voice I warned my mom as people began banging on our doors. They rushed in, telling us there had been a call. Confused, I watched as my brother was put on a stretcher and into an ambulance. We are lucky they saved him from his own head, suicide is never the answer.