That's a long time. A lifetime for some. For others, 21 years surpasses a lifetime.
I was a senior in college at 21 and excited to take a new Creative Writing course. Not surprisingly, much of my writing had turned darker than I had typically written before Ken's death. And much of it centered on him. I don't remember often consciously choosing to write about him, but that's where my thoughts naturally went.
One of our assignments that October was to write a description of a ghost. It certainly isn't my best writing; in fact, I recall that my professor didn't really "get it." But I think those of you reading will. So, in memory of my brother's suicide on Halloween, here was my response.
by Kristin Spengler
He treads sluggishly on his journey and slowly slithers through trees, hoping not to be discovered by any eye which can still see the future. Light is his enemy, as he is only comfortable with darkness as an escort. He hangs his head in shame so that he will not have to face his decision. His stature is slouched as he belabors every step on this world from his past. He freezes at the house which used to be his home; darkness has taken its place. His musty scent lingers as he roams through the incomplete household. His favorite obsession has become bursting into the dreams of others as quickly and suddenly as he abandoned his own. As he slowly lifts his head, his glowing red eyes strain to focus on me, then back at the ground. The pain he left behind for me seeps into all of the walls and possesses me until I have to gasp for air. I attempt to free myself of the nightmare we share and jut straight up in bed with only his words, "I'm sorry," gushing out of the door into the unknown.