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
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
wouldn’t think about it.
As if that would make the pain go away.