May 2014
It is the day after the funeral and my sister is with me. I’m drinking Covonia straight out of the bottle.
“I wish you’d come home with me.” She says. “You don’t want to be hanging around here.”
I wonder to myself how I’m doing this. I haven’t gone upstairs yet. I’m too tired to be mad, too tired to be suicidal, too confused. I breathe out, swallowing hard, my head jumbled, and I say:
“In another universe I suppose this hasn’t happened.”
A post-it note on the kitchen memo board reads: WHAT IS TIME?
“I wish you’d come home with me.” She says. “You don’t want to be hanging around here.”
I wonder to myself how I’m doing this. I haven’t gone upstairs yet. I’m too tired to be mad, too tired to be suicidal, too confused. I breathe out, swallowing hard, my head jumbled, and I say:
“In another universe I suppose this hasn’t happened.”
A post-it note on the kitchen memo board reads: WHAT IS TIME?
