I still remember the first Christmas my father killed himself.

He hung himself in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, right beside the piece of mistletoe my mother had hung there several weeks earlier. I found his body swinging there when I came bolting down the stairs to collect my gifts - a twisted nightmare sack left behind by old St. Nick.

Neither my brother nor I knew exactly how to feel. It was Christmas, our hearts were filled with the joy only a dozen new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures and a handful of shrink-wrapped NES cartridges could bring, but our father, the man for which we felt a love which could not be put to words, was dead.

My mother spent the day crying in her, formerly their, bedroom. We could hear her sobbing as we sat quietly playing under the tree.

Last year he did it again.

Now it’s just getting old.