It's What You Take From It

Until Tuesday, no one I knew ever committed suicide.

I didn't know someone did until Wednesday afternoon.

For all the times I thought about it through my teens and twenties, I never imagined the impact. God, it's drastic.

Rather than dwell on the shock and disappointment, I found myself starved for inspiration.

To find it, I only need to walk into a department store to pay my bill.

At a counter in the men's department stood a older man, strangely stooped over and shuffling slightly.

Getting through all five syllables of "Do you some help?" was a herculean task for him.

Whether he suffered from a stroke's effects, a speech impediment or a neurological disorder, he fought it, his Southern accent still shining through. I'm going with a stroke, because the left hand of his body slouched unnaturally, and he relied solely on his right hand.

But one-handed or not, he ran that register. A few other employees circulated past the counter as he helped me, aiding him in a way that let him maintain control of transaction.

Whether picking up a stapler or punching the register keys, he struggled but his body language radiated determination. Life didn't beat him, and he soldiered on. A debilitating condition only held him back so far.

Only when he quietly indicated he couldn't staple the receipts together did I offer any assistance. I think it would have been refused.

As I turned to leave, I heard "Come back and see us" from the same fracture voice.

I translated it as, "I'm not going anywhere."

A night after a troubled former reporter checked out way too soon, that was refreshing.