Here I sit in a Kroger parking lot typing this on my phone hoping my CE peeps can help me. Erik put a bullet through his brain at 1:20 P.M. almost three years ago on October 6th. Around that time, I can’t be in my house, because I imagine him sitting in that chair with that 45 caliber Rossi pointed at his right temple feeling such a sense of hopelessness then pulling that trigger. I remember that call from Maria, her scream when she opened his door, the frantic drive home. I recall so vividly racing for the front door only to find it locked. Banging and screaming over and over until Maria finally opened it, climbing up those stairs with a mix of fear and determination. Finding him. Oh god, finding him. Burying my head in his lap not daring to look up again at his head. I could hardly recognize him as my son. Then I put my head against his chest and heard nothing. Just a horrible silence that could only mean indisputable finality. I remember the detective guiding me downstairs with such compassion. The crime scene tape. The officers with blue gloves and cameras. The crime scene clean up crew. The sound of them ripping up his carpet. Watching them take his bloody chair downstairs for disposal. Calls for cornea donation. I remember too much. So, please help me. How do can I stand to be in that house this time of day? As I sob in my car here in this parking lot, people are beginning to stare.