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Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Suicide, Angel, Richard Cory, Edward Arlington Robinson

Credit for Photograph: Google Free Photographs


I want to tell you a story about a woman I met when my husband was dying. Out of respect for her friends, co-workers and family members, and for the sake of this blog post, we'll  just call her Angel.
Angel was married. She had a child. She had a career. Her friends, family members and all of her co-workers loved and respected her. She was loving, kind, giving, and nurturing. All during my husband's illness, and after his death, Angel was there for me. Unconditionally.
In my darkest hours when thoughts of I-just-can’t-take-the-pain anymore rippled my brain, Angel appeared at my door. Juggling strawberry thick shakes, boxes of chocolate, books by famous authors, and chatting words of encouragement to support and raise me up to more than I could be, there was Angel, smiling happily, joy-filled with boundless energy to spread it.
In time, Angel became my new best friend. We shared morning cups of coffee at Starbucks, afternoon bowls of soup at Atlanta Bread, and evening walks around a shopping mall parking lot. Thanks to Angel, I became whole again.
One morning, just about two years after I met Angel, I was at my kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper. In a little while I would be meetingup with Angel for a bowl of chicken noodle soup. We made plans the week before. I was looking forward to seeing her and her cheerful smile.
It didn’t happen.
Tucked in the obituaries was Angel’s name.
Angel was dead.

At the age of fifty-something, she took her own life.
For a long time I just sat there numb as a stump. I held a newspaper, fought tears, and stared at blurred newsprint, wondering.
Today I remember Angel. I remember her many acts of lovingkindess. I do not judge. I will not comment. Angel is my friend. And I pray to her.
But, that’s just me.
See you in print,
Linda Della Donna
Author of
A Gift of Love
Words of Inspiration:
Richard Cory
by Edward Arlington Robinson
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good Morning!” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine — we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.


Note to Angel:
I love you, Angel. Wherever you are. Thank you for being my friend.



See you in print,

Linda Della Donna
Author of
A Gift of Love

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