11/3/2020

He’s dead.
I’m sorry.
It’s ok.
When? May I ask?
Well over fifteen years now,
Oh.
But as good as forty.
Pardon?
In my head, my heart. All of it.
So, he’s not dead?
To me? To you? Yes. Sure.
But he’s alive?
To some: His wife, postman, youngest daughter.
Your sister?
Yes.
Are you close?
She and I? Yes.
So, you must see him.
No. I’m careful, focused, determined.
Does he call for you?
No. Never really has, never really did.
Thus, the death.
Thus, the death.