If you know me, you probably know that my dad committed suicide on September 26 2005 with a rifle. It all happened in my grandmother's basement which also doubled as his massive workshop. My 77-year-old diabetic wheelchair bound grandmother spotted him at the bottom of the stairs. With a mother's might and determination, this frail women who could barely get in and out of bed from her chair, climbed down a full flight of stairs to her boy, no doubt hollering at him and crying. When she got to him she touched him and, as she said to me, "I knew."

My dad was a brilliant saxophone player, who really lived in the wrong place (far from a big city) for a guy who hoped to do something with his extraordinary talent. I wish I could play a tape for you. I would put him up against the likes of Kenny G or Boots Randolph. He was that good. He was a very moral man, with a strong distaste for lying and meanness towards others-who didn't deserve it. He liked Clint Eastwood movies, salty foods, and seeing ingenuity at work. He was a loyal friend and husband to my mother.

But dad had a tough upbringing with parents that fought all the time, and probably antagonized him. As a result he could have glaringly bad people skills. He suffered from depression on and off and had been in and out of some mental health hospitals during his 58 years. Still, taking his own life was just not something like he would do. I can't explain it, he was just a little too selfish to do that.

As a result of his search for inner peace, dad popped a lot of pills, prescription and OTC as far as we know. He was on a lot of medication at the time of his death (my sister counted 24 bottles of medication in his dresser including Prozac.)

Most of us believe he just lost his mind and picked up the rifle. He probably thought it was a good idea at the time, or that he was showing something to somebody. His meds had caused him to hallucinate once before. Perhaps he was angry. All we know is that the day before he screamed at his sister-extremely unlike him-and apparently called my sister's cell phone at around 10PM that night. She thought it was my grandmother and didn't answer. He left no voicemail.

On a wall near the bottom of the staircase where he was found, were pictures of my sister and me, of his friends and other family members. He had a copy of a letter I wrote to channel 9 news when I was little to tell them what a great dad I had. Also was the invitation card

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