He’s Dead. I’m Not. Figure That Out.

Four years after my son’s suicide, I still flinch when the phone rings.

This photo is from 2013. Elijah was 23. He’s lying there exactly the way he always did — not beside the dog, but with the dog. Quiet. Present. Soft in a way most people missed. He could spend hours like this, stretched out alongside whatever animals were in the house — dogs, cats, whoever was around. It wasn’t for show. It wasn’t performative. He just fit with them. No performance, no effort. He didn’t need words with animals. He never used his energy trying to impress or entertain them. And they knew it. They trusted him for it. I watched him lie with them the way some people rest beside family after a long journey — not trying to solve anything, just being safe enough to go still. That was Elijah. Tender, stubborn, complex, and real. This is how I remember him. No mask. No performance. Just being, with someone who let him.

Today is July 7th.

It’s been four years since my son Elijah died.

I don’t need a reminder. No calendar alert, no app notification, no anniversary post. My body knows before I open my eyes. There’s a pressure in my chest. A throb behind my ribs. It’s not a memory. It’s a shift in the air. The day starts differently. I wake already bent.

When people say “four years,” they mean it like time passed. Like I’m further from it. Like distance makes it easier. But there is no distance. There is no easier. It didn’t move away. It moved in. I carry it. It loops. I don’t get to say, “That was then.” It’s always now.

I remember the moment I got the call.

I remember what I was wearing.

I remember the silence that followed — the kind of silence that doesn’t lift. You don’t recover from that kind of silence. You learn to live inside it.

There was no shiva. No structure. No crowd of mourners lining up to say the right thing. Just a blast radius. Just me standing in the wreckage, looking around, realizing who wasn’t there. Some couldn’t face it. Others vanished. And I never asked them back.

So I mark this day alone.

I lit a candle this morning. Not because I think it brings him closer. But because I needed to do something. I needed my hands to move. I needed to give the ache a shape. Something small. Something alive. Something that doesn’t ask anything from me. That doesn’t try to fix it.

Elijah was thirty-one.

He was stubborn. Smart. Sharp-edged. Sensitive in all the ways the world punishes. He carried too much. And one day, the weight tipped. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t selfish. He was drowning. And I couldn’t get to him in time.

I still dream of switching places. I still bargain with ghosts. I would’ve given anything — anything — for one more hour. One more stupid fight. One more half-laughed “I love you” before he slammed the door.

People don’t talk about suicide unless they’re forced to. They lower their voice. They change the subject. But I won’t. My son died by suicide. And I am still here.

I live with it every day. I wear it in my spine. In my hands. In the way I fake casual when someone asks,

“Do you have kids?”

Yes, I have a beautiful daughter.

However, I carry the silence. I carry him.

And I’ve gotten good at functioning. I walk the dog. I answer emails. I make jokes. But none of that means I’m okay. It means I figured out how to keep moving when I didn’t want to.

There is no “moving on.” That phrase should be buried. You don’t move on. You move with. You learn to live in the crater. You build around it. Beneath it. Inside it.

And on days like today, you stop pretending. You let the grief level you. You stop trying to be strong. You just tell the truth.

Here’s mine:

My son is dead. He died four years ago today. I am still here. Still breathing. Still wrecked. Still loving him with every part of me.

Even though he’s not coming back.

​D​ad.
For Elijah.
July 7th.
Not gone. Just missing.

Mourners Kaddish (prayer)

​יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא

בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ,

וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ,

וְיַצְמַח פֻּרְקָנֵהּ וִיקָרֵב מְשִׁיחֵהּ,

בְּחַיֵּיכוֹן וּבְיוֹמֵיכוֹן

וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשְׂרָאֵל,

בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב,

וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן.

---

עוֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו

הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ

וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל

וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן.

Magnified and sanctified be His great name
in the world which He has created according to His will.
May He establish His kingdom
and may His salvation blossom and His anointed be near,
in your lifetime and in your days
and in the lifetime of all the House of Israel,
speedily and at a near time,
and say, Amen.

---

He who makes peace in His high places,
may He make peace upon us
and upon all Israel,
and say, Amen.