Читать книгу The Resilient Founder. Lessons in Endurance from Startup Entrepreneurs онлайн

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Later that night, I read Meggie Royer's poem, “The Morning After I Killed Myself,” in which she narrates the regrets of a suicide and how she tries to unkill herself. She writes about the orange tree and the red cloud – the sun rising, setting. She writes about eggs and toast and cheese. About love for her mother. I wished that Mark had read this poem too. Because if he had read it, maybe, just maybe, he might have changed his mind.

The Morning After I Killed Myself, I Woke Up

-by Meggie Royer

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.