Yesterday was the six-month anniversary of Mike's suicide. I spent Saturday, June 5, 2010 remembering the horrible, haunting details of Saturday, December 5, 2009--the day everything changed. I remembered getting the phone call from my parents. This week I just wanted to call Mike. It hits me over and over that he isn't here. The hardest part is thinking about how much pain he was in without anyone realizing it. Mom and Dad went through some of his things this week and found prescriptions for three kinds of antidepressants and an anti-anxiety medication. They all had dates within the last few months. But then he stopped taking them so that they had all left his system before he died. By the time I knew something was wrong it was too late. I think I felt it when he left. I sensed something was not right that day. When my parents called, I was shaking, like I knew they had some terrible news to tell me. But then, maybe it was the sound of my Dad's voice. Maybe it was the man yelling at me in the park to control the dog. The detective said they didn't know how long Mike's body had been lying there, but probably not more than a few hours. His body was lying by a trash can and a stranger found him there and called the police. While this was happening, was I walking to the park with Dolly, who was about to run her first race? Mike had a saved text message in his phone that he never sent. Did he sit in his car for a long time contemplating his act, or did he just get out of the car and do it? Was I still sleeping when he left us? Were my parents eating breakfast or walking their dog? They woke up and started putting up the Christmas tree. They never finished. Why can you just walk into a pawn shop in Virginia and buy a shot gun, no questions asked? Maybe a waiting period is a good idea, people. I want to talk to Mike about what he was thinking in those last few days, but I never will. He is not anymore. I don't believe he's sitting a cloud watching us, happy that his death made the rest of our family closer. He is scattered into a million pieces. Six months into grief, it still haunts me every day, nearly every hour. Happiness has this dark undertone, this oh yeah, and then there's the dead brother. Don't forget about him. Mom and Dad hurt so much. We all do. Mom says she does not have guilt but she does have regret. We all regret not seeing it. I regret not being more present. No matter how good I am now, it will never make up for what I didn't do when he was alive. So there it is, six months into grief.