Because today, Sept. 13, 2014 is Suicide awareness day, the Jeffersonian decided to post this is a stand against the horrible epidemic that is giving up.
I guess it would be more poetic if I said the day was rainy—we always seem to supplement the melancholy with “sad” weather—but, in all honesty, the day was clear, bright, and simple. The grass was green, the clouds a pearly white, and the sun shone down as it always did. But the soil had not yet regained its mantel of grass; the stone was still polished, unaffected by the progress of the years. She was not yet a morsel of time—for her memory lingered on in every blade of grass upturned to form her bed.
The rose I gave to her was white—white like the innocence of the childhood she had been torn from. She hadn’t even been sixteen—that day, which would have brought her so much joy had passed in silence, scarce a week ago. She never saw the little stitched heart that I had spent so many tedious hours making for her. She had robbed herself of the joy, the warmth, the love that waited, just around the corner from her tears. She would never feel another day, save in the passing of the hours and the grass that grew above her. The little sparrow that hopped up and down between the flowers would have brought a smile to her face, if she could have seen it. But all of that was gone now…
The rose petals shone against the grass– white on green, lying just above her breast.
Sighing, I turned back to the city.