My mother tried to kill herself so many times
and didn’t succeed we lost count. Didn’t care.
“There she goes again,” said my little brother.
So, when she announced one afternoon that
she’d locked herself in the upstairs bathroom,
swigged pills and paregoric and bleated good-bye
interspersed with loud sobs, my father seemed
more upset about the paregoric he’d sneak at night.
But he still called the fire department which sent
a hook and ladder and the police for the rescue,
whereupon she politely invited them downstairs
for coffee and conversation. Don’t blame that
poor woman’s successful suicide on sadness
about her own mother or her miserable childhood!
Forget about blaming the ravages of the Depression
because that was a time my mother lived it up.
In my family an exit often took several events
and numerous attempts before managing
to get it right.