When I turned fifty, I stood at the kitchen counter looking out the window at our small backyard in Providence, Rhode Island, studying our one towering tree and old carriage house, and suddenly I saw my mother, alone at her kitchen table in Pennsylvania, looking out at her flower garden, the sloping lawn, the pear tree and woods beyond.  It dawned on me that I was now as old as she had been when she lost her 14-year-old son to suicide.  My mind didn’t flash to my brother Geoff. It saw only the three different faces of my own boys, each so full of life and purpose, and my breath caught. I could not fathom losing one of them. I saw my mother’s face, the kindness of her smile, her attentive eyes, and I felt her spirit swirl through me even though she was now eight years gone. Sadness for her swept over me, into my bones, and I steadied myself against the hard countertop.

‘It dawned on me that I was now as old as she had been when she lost her 14-year-old son to suicide.’