The child lifted himself onto the ledge. Sat. Watched, three stories down, the streets. Calm, occasionally interrupted by people striding in straight lines toward some future location of plan and purpose.

The child thought of his past. Times of low spirit when he’d desired height only that he might trade it for his end. The breaking of bones and concrete. The child thought of this looking at a cat across the street – running on a ledge, also three stories, hunting. The life of this animal changed – given new parameters and dangers by the city. Then the cat disappeared into a crevice in search of bird.

The child turned to look back at the people walking below and his hand slipped. A half-word came from his chest. His skin awoke. He fell three stories, landed on his back and broke the concrete with his death.

And with the contact of family there were thoughts without words. Thoughts of the directionless and melancholy. The unsaved and judged. Thoughts of the egocentrism of suicide. An aunt was overheard whispering, “He didn’t even leave a note.”