The first thing I remember about the day my mother committed suicide, is the sky. It was insultingly clear. A brilliant azure, almost taunting blue as if it was challenging any clouds to dare make an appearance. It was a misplaced beauty, an anomaly in mid October. The ground covered in red and gold leaves glimmering under what could only be described as an August sun it was warm. The sidewalk hot to the touch. So warm they had to clean up the crime scene faster than usual because my mother’s remains were literally cooking.