It was one year ago today that we bought you that deep, smooth sounding acoustic guitar for your 34^th birthday. Three months later I found that guitar in my garbage can with a suicide note in the trashcan sitting amidst the fall induced dying vegetation of my back yard. The computer generated, hand signed suicide note, which was once read to the police, still sits in my plastic filing case. Those months between your birthday and that suicide note have become a blur of confusion, sadness and anger. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment you flipped, and perhaps it was a series of moments; little, undetected moments. Though you are now out of my life, your verbal threats echo in my head and invade my daily thoughts.