Standing on the edge, my mind was white. No; it was clear. Nothing I had experienced in my 18 years was going through my head. Not my mother's voice, or the orange corduroy couch in my Aunt Lucy's basement.

And then I jumped. Rocks and crashing waves below this cliff in Martha's Vineyard, our family vacation spot. Rushing into my head were thoughts of my first kiss, first time, smoking pot under the high school bleachers... My dad's face when I learned to drive, my mom's when I crashed the minivan.

My white sneakers were about to get soaking wet, to eventually get pulled off by getting caught on a rock or a few fish. My tan pants, that were brand new were about to get bloody from my legs breaking on the rocks below; my red tshirt to get snagged, then torn off.

They would find all of this later, and ask a lot of questions that in life I would never have answers to. In death, my answer would be that I never felt perfect enough to have new tan pants, or summers in Martha's Vineyard. I felt that I belonged under the high school bleachers, crashing the van while I was drunk at 16.