An email to the Chief of Police (where Jake worked his last day, August 12 of 2016, before he died on Sunday, two days later)

Dear Chief,

Every now and then I'm compelled to look for clues as to why Jake killed himself. Today was one of those days. I've just spent the past 1.5 hours scouring the Internet for information I might stumble upon to help make sense of his last days. Always a waste of time; never find anything. 

The phone calls that harassed our household for 18 months after his death have finally stopped (replaced now by myriad political calls of course). It seems his creditors have all finally given up -- and are not  interested in starting probate procedures. (When I dare to picture in my mind his home in Albany, I have to assume the KIA still sits in the garage and his belongings are scattered or pillaged from the house. Last I heard, the City of Albany was mowing the lawn from time to time.) His mail, thanks to the sweet young lady who delivers our mail, is being marked "Moved; left no forwarding address" and I would assume is being shredded somewhere.

I still have not been able to look at the thumb drive you graciously sent me last year when I asked you for it. For some reason I think it holds your announcement to the MPD family on August 15, 2016.

I'm still in touch with Christopher Brozek, but I'm not sure if that friendship can sustain itself much longer. 

Today I called Jake's cell phone for the first time. (It was never found, I'm told.) It rings for one minute, then goes to "busy." I sent him a text today, too. And I "locked" our texts to one another so they'd never disappear. Oh yes, the grieving love to torture themselves.

I posted a 37-stanza poem on my blog earlier this year (a verse for each year he managed to stay alive). The version I'm going to attach has only 36 stanzas; I removed one that refers to a love relationship he had for 6 years with a woman you undoubtedly know. I'd rather that not get back around to her. I've had a few brief conversations/texts with her this past year and she is very, very kind to me. 

I don't know why I'm writing you. You called and left a message last week. You were one of only 3 people I know of who remembered the date. My husband and I cried listening to you, of course. I feel you've done your job now, Chief. Two anniversaries you've reached out; no need to keep it on your calendar henceforth. But thanks . . . from the bottom of my heart.

The blog post is attached.

Jake Skibba 1979-2016

Only the Memories

Oh, how tiny you were.

You couldn't latch on,

refused to perform

for gentle neo-natal nurses.

   Warm soy milk.

How mottled you were.

When at last I brought you home

your grandmother wondered

how I could care for one so small.

   Transparent skin.

How I'd walk with you, wide-eyed

in your yellow umbrella stroller.

I showed you the new bridge and

the Sugar Bowl cafe coming down.

   Dust and noise.

How you were mistaken for a girl.

It was my fault, of course.

I couldn't bear to cut your hair

after the spot they shaved grew back.

   Blonde silk.

How we visited the library

and borrowed puzzles,

but all you wanted to do

was put the pieces in a frying pan.

   Wooden spoon.

How you had to be coaxed into

eating breakfast before school.

I'd make a “happy plate,”

arranging your food like a picture.

   Edible art.

How you loved those stories

about a badger named Frances

(with her smug disposition)

and a mischievous child named Hattie.

   Giggle time.

“Hattie be quiet. Hattie be good”

you'd pretend to read aloud,

enunciating the double T's,

and exhaling with your H's.

   No baby talk.

How you beamed in first grade,

darting from your room that day,

exclaiming “I can read! I can read!

Mom, I can read!”

   Think light bulb.

How you loved my sticky notes.

You put one on the ironing board

that said “I need a hog.” When discovered,

I indulged you with a loving hug instead.

   Mistakes don't matter.

How you loved collecting things.

Erasers of every shape and color

appeared at our feet, arranged like careful mosaics,

blocking doorways, gracing halls.

   Fine art, I said.

How you never fussed about wearing

glasses at the ripe old age of eight.

“They emphasize your intellect,” I said,

and you never took them off.

   Smug little nerd.

How you ran to me with a tiny cut

I'd cover with a band-aid, careful not

to touch the sticky part until affixed to you.

“Only moms do it that way,” you said.

   When Band-aids did the job.

How you found yourself in Catholic school –

new town, new school, new 8-year olds.

You sat quietly for morning mass

when all the others knelt or stood.

   The non-Catholic.

How, on the last day of fifth grade,

you taped a note to my bedroom door.

“I really want to move back home,”

you begged, “I want to live with Dad.”

   Wicked step-dad.

How you cooperated with my need

to see you every weekend then,

traveling half the way with Dad

and half the way with me.

   Parking lot exchange.

How you saved your money all year long

to light the sky and blow things up

on the fourth day of July –

an annual show for friends, for family.

   Your own tradition.

How you delivered the news on roller blades,

so swift, so sure – self-satisfied.

Newsprint photo on page one. It's you,

with a story to make a mom proud.

   Below the fold.

How we loved to try to catch the other

with some crazy made-up story.

Like the night I told you stop signs

weren't meant to be obeyed after midnight.

   Gotcha.

How you memorized your favorite lines

from movies that you loved,

and delivered them with perfect timing.

Someone else's words to fill the void between us.

   Borrowed lines.

How you moved across the stage,

the class of '97.

I watched you, in slow motion,

as you took that turning point with honors.

   4.0 gold tassel.

How you insisted on a private room

in the freshman dorm that fall,

your need for solitude no mystery.

And when we left, you quickly closed the door.

   Keep out.

How, that first semester, you met the devil

whose name was Calculus.

His vulgar voice inside your head played on and on,

“You're not so smart, this pond is large, young man.”

     Not like high school.

How you let that devil ruin you.

How quickly you gave up.

“How's it feel in that big pond, little fish?”

The only voice you heard, the only one that mattered.

   Big fish abound.

How then you turned to music, with

classical guitar, your major.

And next you thought “a pastry chef, the culinary arts.”

Or architectural landscape since you liked to mow the lawn.

   Out of focus.

How you took a job, short-order cook.

Who could know the sway of kitchen staff,

the drugs, the alcohol,

would take you on that dangerous ride?

   Over-easy ecstasy.

How you floundered that next decade.

In school, out of school, this job, that –

Nothing ever satisfied

that drive you had to be the best.

At something.

(deleted lines)

How you pulled yourself together then –

Good job, a mortgage, your best-friend dog.

You fenced your yard and

in the spring your neighbors loved your rhubarb.

   A house, not home.

How the house you bought was old,

rundown, and needed everything.

You thought you'd fix it up,

but all you did was tear up every room.

   Not a fix-it-yourself kinda' guy.

How we took a spade along

to walk your dog on public trails

and stole the tiny maple trees

still standing, alone now, in your yard.

   Marking time.

How you loved all manner of music

and copied library CDs.

The perfect illegal hobby for a single guy

with student loans, car payments, and a long commute.

   Always broke.

How the more you regretted buying

your humble property,

the higher grew the weeds

and your tools, left out, now rusted.

   Who cares?

How the lack of garbage pick-up

meant you hauled your own detritus, paid a fee.

So your car gave up the garage

to bags and bags of that which wouldn't burn.

   Trailer trash.

How you had less, and less, and less to say --

to me . . . or anyone.

The times we spent together, all the empty space

you'd try to fill by showing me your best-loved tv shows.

   Stilted repartee.

How you kept your problems from me.

Addictions, loneliness, regrets.

I thought it meant you felt more settled,

and perhaps with age, you'd mellowed.

   Little did I know.

How you took the future into your own hands,

choosing to leave us all bewildered.

With an email note apologizing

for any inconvenience you may have caused.

   Braided, yellow rope.