It is not my place to ask how it shall be done. There is alcohol in the bar, sleeping pills in the cabinet, the old revolver in its wooden case buried at the back of the closet; even a silk tie may bear weight if its knot is tied tight. I do not dwell on the respective properties of these things nor which, come the moment, may seem most suitable to a grieving mind. It is his to choose and I will never know the outcome of that choice unless there truly exists a god cruel enough to condemn us to an afterlife. For both our sakes, I hope that isn’t the case.