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October 22, 2011 / Keely

Listening to Bickford

I was six when my great uncle committed suicide while his eighty-six year old wife was getting open heart surgery.  The doctors gave her no chance, Bickford said, smoking on the couch.  She almost made it to her hundredth birthday—spending her last couple years leaning over her food tray, sipping water out of a straw, begging God to take her.

My uncle had closed the garage door behind him while his Oldsmobile ran—the rest of the family at the hospital.  He sat there, I imagine, letting the fumes slowly dissolve his consciousness.  We found him hours later, alone.

Written by Geoff Watkinson

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