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When:  9:00 am – 2:30 pm, Monday – Friday
Where: Tompkins County Public Library Borg Warner Room
101 E. Green St., Enter through the back door of library, off of Green St.
Hot Beverages & Snacks available all day
Covid-19 safety protocols are strictly enforced
All are welcome

For more information email: info@loaves.org or visit website: loaves.org

Go here to see the full schedule and to register.

Download the flyer: Crossroads of Mental Health and Homelessness

For Joshua

I know you can’t hear me,
but if you could,
I’d tell you about my day.
I played with our cousin,
built a snowman,
and sledded down the stairs.
It reminded me of the hour you played shark
with him, laughing together.
I slept upstairs, our uncle across the hall,
and remembered the times I’d go to the basement,
hoping to catch you playing
“Behind Blue Eyes” on the guitar.

If you could hear me,
though I know you can’t,
I’d tell you about my trip to our grandfather’s.
I finally finished that YouTube series you showed me.
I’m sorry I couldn’t watch it with you,
but it was still funny.
I see why you liked it.
I wish we could’ve played Rock Band together afterward.

If you were here,
though I know you’re not,
I’d show you the new sweater I got for Christmas.
Dad said it was meant for you,
but I guess it’s mine now.
It has Rick on it, laughing crazily.
It makes me picture all the late nights,
watching Rick and Morty go on endless sci-fi adventures.
You always liked that.

Maybe you can hear me,
probably not,
but even if you can’t,
I want to tell you
I miss you every day.
I wake up,
and I have to remind myself you’re gone—
I have to resist the urge to text you, brother unit,
and you to text back, sister unit,
and to tell you about a trip I want to take with you—
because there will be no more trips with you.

If you had seen me,
which I know you didn’t,
you would’ve seen me collapse in the hospital.
You would’ve seen me break down at calling hours.
You would’ve seen me deliver my eulogy without breaking,
and you would’ve seen Dad climb up the stage
and speak for five minutes without crying.
I still don’t know how he did it.

If you could read this,
though I know you can’t,
you’re probably wondering how Dad’s doing.
Short answer: not great.
He cried over your body, dude.
He practically knocked it over.
He hugged Mom for the first time in years.
Stepmother stood there,
making it about her yet again.
I hate her for it,
but I suppose it must’ve been hard for her,
finding you in the garage.
I wonder,
was it her you chose to find you?

I know you can’t answer,
but I still want to ask.
How did you learn to tie the rope so well
that it wouldn’t break from your weight?
Did you ever doubt?
Did you stand on that chair, asking,
Do I really want to do this?
Why did you answer yes?

I wish you’d said no,
but you didn’t.
So now, I’m here.
And you’re not.
It’s not fair,
me having to be the strong one between the two of us.
But I suppose, since you were so selfless,
you’re allowed to be selfish once.

If you chose to stay,
which I know you didn’t,
I would’ve hugged you,
told you again how much I loved you.
I know I said it a lot.
I know you said it a lot.
When you told me you valued our relationship,
it was better than any gift I’d ever received.
You’ve given me so much,
and I wish I could’ve given you more.

If you could see me,
though I know you can’t,
you’d see me cry for hours in my room,
feeling like I can’t live without you.
There are times I dream about you,
dream that you’re alive.
My sweater is forever on your body,
cut up the middle by the paramedics,
and the bruises are forever on your neck.
On those days,
when I wake up to reality,
I want to follow you
all the way to the abyss,
to tie the knot around my own neck
and let it all fade away.

Even if you’re not really gone,
it feels like you are.
I don’t know where you are now,
big little brother,
but if you can hear me,
I love you,
and I miss you,
and I wish you only the best.

By JW

More of Remembering: Stories of Suicide Loss

Robyn and Randy Sundquist 1963

These are my memorial gardens  for my beloved brother who took his  life on May 21st, 2018.

Robyn Sundquist

More from Remembering: Stories of Suicide Loss

]]> https://ithacacrisis.org/losing-a-child/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=losing-a-child Tue, 15 Sep 2020 13:19:46 +0000 http://ithacacrisis.org/?p=1805 In facilitating healing groups for women who have lost children, some to suicide, a few things have stood out to me. In addition to the terrible and traumatic suffering these women experience from loss, many of these courageous women are dealing with feelings of guilt.

I find it so incredibly sad that they feel responsible and they think they could have done something to prevent the suicide.

The other is that, almost to a woman, each has expressed the profound sensitivity in the character of their loved one. They were poets, musicians, and exhibited other extreme forms of sensitivity throughout their lives.

Anonymous

Read more Remembering: Stories of Suicide Loss

When I was around ten, the Mumsey told me that Iris had such a terrible case of Polio as a young child that she could barely walk. But a clever doctor advised her parents to give Iris ballet lessons to strengthen her damaged legs. Iris loved the dance lessons so much, she not only completely recovered, but she became famous as a ballerina and then as a modern dancer and choreographer, in Europe before World War II broke out.

During the war, Iris joined the underground to help Jews escape, and became famous for being particularly brave and willing to risk her life. My Mumsey learned about her daring escapades from an old newspaper article that Iris had saved.

Many years later, after I had moved away from Ithaca, and my first marriage at the age of eighteen to Leo had faltered and ended, I returned to Ithaca with my toddler son Storn. We had some amusing times with Iris at my Mumsey’s house. But, a few weeks after I last saw Iris, just as we were eating dinner, the Mumsey called me with horrendous news! A few hours earlier that day, a number of Cornell University students had seen our beloved Iris leap to her death. In my mind, I could see Iris sucking in her breath, posing dramatically on the edge of the rail, and leaping gracefully….

My teary Mumsey explained that Iris had been depressed because she was almost sixty and no longer felt strong enough to teach dance, and she had no other way to earn money. The Mumsey said that she had been so concerned about Iris’s mental state, that just the day before Iris killed herself, she had talked Iris into temporarily going to Willard – a mental hospital not far from Ithaca – to get some help. Iris had agreed to do it and asked the Mumsey to pick her up at 9:00 the next morning.

However, at 9:00 AM when the Mumsey arrived at Iris’s apartment, the police were already there. They told her they had found a suicide note on the door addressed to my Mumsey. I could tell that my Mumsey did not want to talk about what it said, so I didn’t press her, and I never did find out exactly what it said.  When the Mumsey told me about Iris’s suicide, I was so shocked it had taken some time for the news to really sink in and make me incredibly sad.

Story and Art by Annie Campbell

Read more Remembering: Stories of Suicide Loss

Jews generally keep their memorials simple and unadorned, which is probably why I chose to make the chair out of pine, the traditional material for coffins, and why I wanted to turn the chair into a tree of life. The paint is made from milk; the pothos recalls a plant cutting I took from Lori’s room; the quote comes from her diary; and the Star of David was found on the street a few years after her death.

Made with: pine chair, pothos plant, milk, tempera, and silver in 2009.

Kenny Berkowitz

See more of Remembering: Stories of Suicide Loss