My daughter and I are standing in Ceely’s tiny apartment for the first time since Ceely’s death by suicide. Her schizophrenia was a road through thirty years, and a road out. Jill and I cry together as we wander around picking up a teacup, a book, a tiny scribble drawing. We haven’t found a note. Jill, who was often with me when I looked in on my sister, bringing her groceries, meds, and sketch books, volunteered to help clean out Ceely’s place. I told Jill she can have anything she wants of Ceely’s belongings. Does a suicide have “belongings.” Stupid question because we’re standing here surrounded by them, though they weren’t anchor enough to keep Ceely here.  

Ceely loved my daughter’s appreciation for her “small loved things.” I came to suspect that Ceely bought some objects just for Jill to find, to pick up, turn, admire, and put down: a paperweight, miniature tea set, an iron caboose, bells, miniature books, painted stones. Last year, for Jill’s thirteenth birthday, Ceely told her to choose thirteen objects from her trove of “small loved things.” Jill once said, “Ceely is like having a big sister who still plays with dolls.” My husband helped me take care of Ceely and understood that she lived in a world of her own. He honored the faraway look in her eyes, a look I used to envy as her younger sister and a look as her guardian I learned to fear. 

The next day I slump into our mother’s old rocker while Jill roams around. Ceely had a gift for wonder. She was a meticulous housekeeper but one evening, when we were playing Scrabble, a soda cracker had fallen to the floor. “Watch,” she said, meaning watch the assembling industrious ants who, by the time she won by 47 points, had dismantled and hauled the entire cracker away.  

It is then that Jill calls for me to come see what she’s found on Ceely’s desk. It is the grocery bag from our most recent delivery of canned soup and books. On the paper bag, in a big red heart, Ceely wrote, ‘Hey Sis and Jill, I’m so sorry.” I hug Jill close. Ceely did leave a message. She flattened the paper bag. She looked around for a red marker. She thought about what to say. She had included Jill. My gratitude is enormous. It is almost enough.

Pamela Painter is the award-winning author of five story collections. Her stories appear in numerous journals, the Wigleaf Top 50, 2025, and have received four Pushcart Prizes.