On the morning of the day my father killed himself, I woke up from a dream in which I was walking through a cemetery. The dream was very clear in my mind. Just as clear, as I lay in bed, was the following thought: I should call my parents. I was in Rochester, New York; they were in Washington DC, where my father had not long ago come home from a week in a psychiatric hospital after a suicide attempt. He'd been depressed for months. I'd visited him in the hospital. It was difficult to see him unshaven and helpless. It was difficult to know how to behave.