That boy ended his life, the life he was given. He used his brain, created for him, to plan those steps, learn that knot, and hang that cord. His soul, the place where he began, wrote that note of fear and sadness, which he left behind. Then that cord took his breath.

The boy’s sister, the sister he was blessed with, went looking for the boy when he didn’t come up for dinner. With her eyes, eyes given to her, she saw the boy hanging from that beam. Her voice, another gift, brought the parents running. They found the sister and found the boy too, those lovely children loaned to them. The mother touched her boy, he whom she bore, and the father’s body crumbled, the body made just for him.

The medic took the priest into the house where the mother lay on the floor beside the boy. The priest gave the mother permission to let the driver remove the child, this child that had already been taken. The ambulance left with the boy’s body and the police came with questions to collect details of their former life. These details were taken away also.

The priest stayed with the family, left behind in the hopeless house. He prayed they would regain their faith, the faith the boy took with him. He tried to answer questions, questions that the boy left behind. The priest helped the family recall the strength they had been given. The mother absorbed the guilt left behind. The father collected up the seeds and shells of failure that the boy escaped. The sister pressed every bit of fear and horror she was given, into her memory.

Then they all prayed that God would give them more, and less.