I was eleven when I watched my father die.
He ascended the hill behind our house one May morning, slanting forward with purpose along the path where it sloped gradually. At the top, he stopped at the edge. The hill towered over the back deck, dwarfing the house. I enjoyed throwing G.I. Joes off that cliff-like edge, cupping my hands around my mouth to make echoey screams, and watching wide-eyed as the figures fell to clatter and bounce on the lawn.
Dad stretched his arms out at his sides. Blood dribbled off his face. I was in the kitchen at the sliding glass door and he was above me, crucified against a blue sky.
He leaned forward.