Today is the first day of June.
My father killed himself on this day twenty-two years ago. I shower quickly with this thought in mind. I know his face from photographs only, mostly black and white. I was two and a half years old when he undressed at four hundred feet, folded his clothes neatly into a pile on a cold steel girder near his feet, and looked out at the gray unforgiving horizon.
I imagined he paused for a moment, perhaps to understand the bitter wind or for the benefit of a spectator on the rocky bank below.