FEBFF8D0-02E4-4C91-AAFC-CDA224B1E5A1 Soon after moving this May I met a woman named Sara. We were introduced, I gave her a business card with my number and said I’d love to walk with her and her dog anytime. She texted me a day or so later and we were off. She lived pretty much at the end of my street, a 3 minute walk. She led me around the trails by my apartment, for an hour or two, almost every other day, and we bared our souls as only two strangers who feel a connection can. I told her about my break-up, she told me about her breakdown. We talked about families and friends and being in our 40s. We talked about apologies and lies and if we knew who we really were. We shared secrets that are hard to tell to people who knew you “then.” She was struggling with some major life changes, but seemed to be moving forward, making decisions, trying to be excited about having a life ahead that was commitment free.

Last Thursday I texted her, her family was in town, and I had been away for a few days, and wanted to make sure she was doing okay and if she wanted to go for a walk. She replied, and yes, a walk soon sounded good. She was counting down to everyone leaving on Sunday. She had a rock/gem collection and we had talked about taking some on our walks to leave for people to find. I was looking forward to stashing those on our next get-together.

Friday at noon I recieved a call. Sara had killed herself that morning.

No one I have talked with knows what could have happened between her watching movies with a friend  late Thursday night, and her decision that morning. No one was emailed. No note. And no sign that she was in the kind of anguish that meant this was her only choice. She was making plans. She had help. Energetically, I never once picked up on absolute despair. She’s a statistic now. And there’s a Sara sized hole in my heart.