Back when I was in elementary school, the girl up the top of our hill committed suicide.
I hate myself for this, but her name slips my mind. She had blonde hair, and was probably six or seven years my senior. She took a bunch of pills, never woke up. Her family was Catholic, and the local church wouldn’t allow her a proper funeral, because it frowned upon suicide. I can still see the flag outside the high school flying at half mast.
It’s weird. We always say people will be forever remembered, and they left this impact and that impact, but I wonder whether—beyond her immediate family—many folks think much about the girl from up the top of our hill who killed herself in the 1980s.
I do, every couple of years. I truly do. I think about a life lost; about how she’d probably have a husband, kids, a job; how she’d recall the depressed days of her girlhood and thank God she never followed through on those pills.
I just wish I could remember her name.