Small steps forward. Typing on a BlackBerry. Rolling Rock. “National Treasure.” Cheesecake. Vibrator. Sleep. A day and a day and a day.
The day momma died, I took her perfume from the bathroom. It felt like stealing. I smell it. For a brief moment, I think she’s alive.
I adjusted the focus on the projector and directed the beam at her. A photo of someone else’s smile lit up on the black of her burqa.
He smiled at her during breakfast. She smiled back, signed the receipt. Each of them knew it was the last time they’d see that name forever.
John posted the hay-man in his front yard. But, still, a man climbed in the back window and ate of his wife’s seed.
“He was a saint, an inspiration! Father Joe will be missed.” We lied through counterfeit smiles and timorous skin for the entire funeral.