suicide is painless

At the bottom of the stairwell the Portuguese landlady hands me a letter to take to the seventh floor.

The elevator is broken, and the kids and I are going up anyways.

We’re about to head up the stairs when she says: “I’ve had some horrible news today.”

“Quoi?” I inquire, knowing that horrible news is usually the most interesting.

“A friend of mine, his son committed suicide. They found him out in the garden. No note. He did it with a knife. I’ve been sick all day just thinking about it.”

We exchange regrets, then I start heading up the stairs with the kids. The girl stops.

“What’s suicide?” She asks.

“It’s when somebody kills themselves,” I answer, afraid of scaring the kids with my bluntness.

“It doesn’t hurt though, does it?” Asks the boy.

“It hurts a lot for a second, but then you’re dead,” I answer, shocked by my inability to sugarcoat my words.

“Why did the son kill himself?” The young girl continues to prod.

“I don’t know. He didn’t leave a note. He must have been very miserable. Sometimes people aren’t happy in life. They find life too hard.”

My mind slips back into my past, where thoughts of suicide would dance jigs in my brain, my mind swimming in melancholia.

“Do you know why I like life?” She asks, smiling.

I’m expecting to be moved, “What, what do you like?”

“Star Wars! Star Wars makes me happy!” She boasts, skipping into the apartment.

“Well thank god for Star Wars,” I say, a smile growing on my lips, “whatever it takes to make you happy.”