My roommate, also a WRW, brought this to my attention. It’s an article in The New Yorker by David Sedaris, and it’s just one of those things. I can’t pinpoint the takeaway, or the notable facts, but it’s impersonally personal. His writing is candid and dry, a bit chilling, but not quite dark. I don’t have much experience with suicide, but my experience with death is everything depicted here: awkward, pithy, searching and resolved.

Screen Shot 2013-11-06 at 1.20.29 PMIn late May of this year, a few weeks shy of her fiftieth birthday, my youngest sister, Tiffany, committed suicide. She was living in a room in a beat-up house on the hard side of Somerville, Massachusetts, and had been dead, the coroner guessed, for at least five days before her door was battered down. I was given the news over a white courtesy phone while at the Dallas airport. Then, because my plane to Baton Rouge was boarding and I wasn’t sure what else to do, I got on it.

For the original article, click here.


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