Poetry and prose have helped me process the shocking, gut-wrenching loss of a precious, unique, complicated person: my brother.

Steven Thomas Harvell left us too soon. But his imprint is indelible, as you’ll know from this ragged, jagged little poem. A decade without him. A lifetime to go.

Sometimes, people die because they feel “less than”; they die because they think they’re alone. They think they’re the only ones crying in the night, because they’re crying alone and don’t feel safe enough to talk about it. We. Have. To Talk. About. It.

A poem dedicated to my brother, a victim of suicide, who suffered in silence. Call the suicide prevention hotline at 800-273-8255.

A footprint, a feather and a leaf, about to be swept away. Remembering my brother in a haiku.

Suicide is born of indescribable pain and causes indescribable pain. Hope is the only way to climb out of the abyss.

For people like me, there’s a sense of loss from the abrupt ending of Anthony Bourdain’s huge contribution to the canons of travel, food and cultural understanding, and a reluctant but absolutely unavoidable comparison to our own unwelcome experiences with the savage, raw, rollercoaster aftermath of suicide.

Processing continuing grief with a haiku; and also a link to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. NaHaiWriMo

I have never said this in a public forum: my brother’s untimely death four years ago was a suicide. Hear my plea: if you’re hurting, please tell someone.