I pick up one of the oblong pills and roll it around in my fingers. Slowly I let it fall down into the cup of my palm. It looks too small and delicate to cause that harm that it would. My fingers trace the numbers etched into the side, the tracking number so all those businessmen can pinpoint which tablet went where, to whom and for what. I wonder if they have a category for suicide.

The rain picks up it’s tempo and I let the tablet fall onto the night table and listen to God’s wonderful sonata. Each drop makes a different sound depending on where it falls from and what it lands on. There’s the pitter patter against the roof, the pounding against the pavement, and the whoosh as the rain falls upon and through the leaves.

Suddenly I can’t help but smile, even as the ache that never goes away persists in burning holes in all my being. Suddenly I’m dancing, dancing to the rain-song. Suddenly, I’m running, running away. Finally free.

Choices. Listen to the rain, to God. Freedom is not in death. It’s in life.