Today is my father’s birthday. We always called it the shortest day of the year: he said it was an easier birthday to get through than other birthdays. We ignored the fact that it was also the longest night of the year.
My father took his own life two years ago, a few months before his eighty-fifth birthday. He was unable to find happiness or peace, but he knew how to find the end.
This tiny publication is a memorial of sorts, written after dispersing his ashes one year after he died.