Pastoral Genocide

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I received a voice mail from my mother, once. It went like this: You know I love you very much. You are a man now and despite that, you are still my little boy. You will always be that. You will always be eight years old and it will always be Christmas morning. You know that I love you very much. You live far away from me and I miss you. [NAME REDACTED] killed himself today. It is terrible and I don’t know what to do. He woke up early, before everyone else, and went behind the house. You know the house, you have been there. He woke up and went behind the house and sat beneath a big maple tree. He shot himself in the head and he sat underneath that tree. It was early in the morning and no one else was awake. They slept in and he sat underneath that tree. They found him when he was still alive but it was too late. [NAME REDACTED] is my best friend in the world and her husband sat beneath a maple tree and killed himself.

There is a pause.

I love you very much. Promise me that you will never do something like this. Even if I am gone, promise me that you will never do anything like this.