When my daughter confessed she'd wanted to end her life at ten--
stepped out on the window ledge and stood there, at the edge
of a decision--we promised never to kill ourselves, never
to abandon each other. And I've never told her about the night
two years later when I came to a place in myself
where it seemed, for the first time, possible--
the way a door appears suddenly in a fairy tale, where the wall was solid.
I knew I could do it--I was drinking
and heartsick, I had enough pills.
I sat on my bed, arms around my knees,
and rocked the way I used to as a child.
Then, I'd believed in God; I would talk to Him
half the night sometimes, knowing
He was there, in heaven, just above the ceiling of my parents' room.
But now there was no one. Only
a couple of cats, locked together in some yard or alley, yowling
until someone raised a window, yelled and slammed it shut.
What a mess I was. How fiercely I loved her.
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