The Detritus of a Life

THE DETRITUS OF A LIFE


We found her sitting,
In the front seat of her car,

Her life spread out around her.

Girl stuff – lipstick, and eye shadow,
Mascara and face cream.
All packed neatly in a pink make-up bag.

{{i}i}God, how I’ve tried … to fit in … to find my place … to find my soulmate.
Now, I give up.

In the glove compartment, maps:
Maps of the town she’d come from,
Maps of the town she’d arrived in.

I don’t like what I’ve become – or not become.
Jumping from job to job, and place to place.
Always looking, searching, yearning.

CDs from rock bands, groups that only the young know.
Lyrics printed off the computer.
Dark words, dark tunes,
Lost loves and lost lives.

I’m unhappy. I’m depressed …
I cannot escape myself and it’s only now that I fully realize that.

Pieces of paper …
A note book that had been her journal.
Writings with lines that rehearsed the final note.
A date book with the only words in it “Bye, bye.”
The final piece of paper: a receipt from a hardware store.
Duct tape, flexible hosing.
Less than $20 for a perfect suicide kit.

I just don’t see anyway out of this one.
I am “aborting mission.”
God, I’m sorry.

She had just turned 24.