Times were hard for the street people that year it was very cold, snowy and drear. The apartment complex that I’d been managing had a one room basement where I allowed Steven a place to lay his head. He spoke with a heavy southern drawl and had told he was born in Mississippi, no doubt it was the truth. His favorite words were “ya all’s” which laced every sentence he spoke. He was a terrible drunk yet one very large church allowed him to chef their yearly Thanksgiving dinner for the street/bridge people. He did that for a number of years (truly it was the highlight of his world and brought meaning to his life) until that last particular year when the church decided to tell him he would not be under circumstances the chef that year unless he stopped drinking. He tried so hard too but he just couldn’t stop. So just a few days after his birthday and as you can see one before Thanksgiving he took his life. It caused no small stir in the church which was the biggest in town. Many members quit attending. It made the front page news, not really him... but the church. They took away his one reason for living and with that... he decided he was no longer needed and the world could do without him... and took his life.
I just want to thank you all again. I guess when Ruth posted her piece on suicide, the anger surfaced again in my soul. But I did want to thank you Ruth for your posting, I’ve written several poems and intend to put them on our Bereaved Site. So good came from it. Thank you very much.
If I could paint a portrait, of this life in which I've led, and somehow sketch a story, of the visions in my head, I'd start out with a canvas, stretched tightly in a frame, and in the bottom corner, I'd leave room to sign my name. (Michelle A. Bartley)