Yesterday I got a call. A friend had taken his own life. Put a shotgun to his head and fired.
I have tried not to ask myself why. But I can't.
The question rang in my skull the minute I heard the news, and has not left my mind since.
This man was the nicest, kindest man I had ever come to know. He was everything that gave me hope about humanity. Full of cheerfulness and smiles and gifts, equipped with the greatest sense of humor and a heart so big it could envelop the world. Never selfish, never petty, he'd never utter a mean word about someone, helping out anyone he could, may you be the irrascible bitter old lady down the street, the newcomer in town or his long-time pétanque partner. Every living soul on the block smiled and waved has he came, each felt a little happier when he stepped on their doorstep. After a hard day's work, a bottle of Pastis and his one remaining eye lit up, I could listen to him for hours on end.
I know in my heart that his was not an irrational decision, that this was something he thought through.
I don't know what triggered it but I know that if he thought it best not to live any longer, he had a good reason.
To me he has not died though, for in me his memory remains intact.
I am not religious, but Maurice was my definition of a truly good man, and who can forget a man like that.