I didn't want to face what was behind that door. I wanted to run away and pretend it didn't happen. For someone to come to my home and clean up the messy remains. The clanging still resonating in my ears; a bell that tolls for thee. There is no one here besides myself and the girls. I don't want to face this alone; more importantly I do not want to plague my children's memories with this horror. I must do this quickly to be able to begin the healing process.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself to witness the aftermath of the destruction that occurs following such a sound. My daughter peeks from around the corner. Ugh! I want to shield her young mind from this carnage. The door that I have been asking my husband to fix slowly creaks open. I don't want to look but I must. Lena's shocked words echo my sentiments. Oh. My. God. It was worse than I could have imagined. I wish my baby wasn't there to witness the macabre destruction. I will not be able to scrub a senseless suicide from her young memory. Why did this have to happen? Why? We should have seen the signs. We could have stopped this. Now all that is left is the gruesome entrails of a shattered soul.
I begin to scoop the viscera. Unceremoniously they are deposited into a Pyrex coffin. Scrubbing takes my mind off the task and makes quick work of the repugnant chore. A few more swipes and the scene of the suicide has been cleansed.
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
Dear God. Please welcome this spaghetti squash into your kingdom. It's time here on Earth was short and stringy and apparently troubled to leave this world in such a desperate manner. Also, please inspire me to whip up some other dinner with this bowl of spaghetti squash guts. My husband is on his way home and always makes fun of the way I can screw up dinner - even in the microwave.
And in the seventh hour: there was spaghetti squash quiche. And it was good.