The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.
I treated myself to breakfast in bed. I added some salt and pepper to my sunny side up eggs and used my toast for a melted cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a long tall juice glass. I scraped the stale ashes from the blackened frying pan and washed the butter off the counter. I washed all the dishes and folded all the towels.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell deeply in love. Not with the guy down the street or the high school principal. Not with the average shopper or the everyday jogger. I fell in love with the sweetness of my mother and the way she plainly sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in the palms of her hands until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with the kindness of my father whilst down at the river as he placed my mystery note into a bottle, and then sent it into what appeared to be the vastness of my imagined ocean. I fell in love with the innocence of my brother who once sweetly believed in unicorns but who now sat motionless at his desk in school trying desperately to convince himself that I still existed.
The morning after I killed myself, I walked our dog. I watched the way his cute tail sprang to life when a bird flew by or how his ears rose in the wake of different sounds. I saw the saddened space in his eyes when he found a stick and turned enthusiastically around to greet me so we could play some catch but saw nothing in my place but empty sky.
The morning after I killed myself, I visited my neighbors’ yard, where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old, and observed how they were already beginning to fade. I picked a few flowers and pulled a few weeds, whilst watching a bee selflessly pollinate a flower. I was lost in the moment and then gazed upward at the elderly woman through her window as she read the local news paper about the news of my death.
The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun peacefully come up and heard the birds sing their beautiful hymns. I watched a mother pushing her pram while her baby slept contently.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that lifeless body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her about the magnificence of life. I told her about the bee that pollinates the flowers and the birds that sing their beautiful songs. I described the majesty of the rising of the sun, the innocence of her young brother, the lonely dog and her parents unconditional love
The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started…