His eyes are closed, his breathing’s shallow.
He brought our newspapers in when we went out of town. Every time he mowed his lawn he mowed ours too. My parents said he was the salt of the earth.
His eyes are closed, his breathing’s shallow.
My parents are here to pay their last respects. When I was 15 he tried to kiss me and put his hand down my pants. I haven’t spoken to him since then. I didn’t come here out of respect.
I never told anybody what he did; my parents think he's the salt of the earth. There’s something I want to say, but I’m not sure why; I don’t believe in an afterlife.
My
parents are chatting with the soon-to-be widow in the living room; she
prattles on about her recipe for zucchini bread. I hear my parents
feigning interest. I hear relief they have zucchini bread-prattle to feign interest in.
I lean in to his gray-yellow face: “See how upset you’ve made everyone ?” His eyes are closed, his breathing’s shallow. My dad is telling Soon-to-be about a banana bread recipe with cardamom.
There's a bottle of morphine and a bottle of Valium on the nightstand; I’m momentarily lost in the whiteness of the pillow beside his yellow-gray head. “I wonder why your daughter isn’t here ?" His shallow breathing is louder and more irritating now.
None of this is what I came to say; I don’t believe in an afterlife, but I'm not sure why. My parents are smacking away on homemade zucchini bread.
I hear Soon-to-be saying she grows her own zucchini, right out there in her garden. My parents “Ooh !” as if they thought her touch redeemed the soil. My parents are here to pay their last respects to the man who tried to put his hand down their daughter’s pants. My parents don’t believe in an afterlife.
His eyes are closed, his breathing’s shallow. His face is yellow-gray. I leave the pillow with its whiteness by his head.
I’m laughing to myself, I'm thinking about his daughter.
I’m whispering “I forgive you” but I’m not sure why.