I found my sister’s note first:

This is goodbye

because I’m tired.

There’s too much to do and not enough time and I’m sick

of trying.

 

I called 9-1-1.

Her signature was smudged with her fingerprint.

She had barely finished it.

 

The empty pill bottle, the note, her depression,

the case was open and shut.

 

Old pictures of her in dance costumes filled the funeral home

among pictures of her graduating high school and college.

There were no pictures from the last five years.

 

Mom and Dad wouldn’t talk

about it,

wouldn’t think about it.

As if that would make the pain go away.

Poetry

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