NOTE: This subject matter may be disturbing for some readers, so please proceed carefully.
A few weeks ago, on a sunny, cold spring morning, I made a journey from my urban jungle here in Chicago to a rolling hillside in the Allegheny Mountains.
I followed my sister, niece and partner as we lay Easter flowers at the grave of my mother, who died in 2007. My mom’s name is there, etched on a metal marker. Several other relatives from both sides of my family tree, including my mom’s grandparents and an aunt, are buried nearby.
Also buried nearby, with a newer, smaller memorial marker, is my sister Shelle, who took her own life one year ago, on April 17, 2011.