Somewhere

I’m not sure how to persuade myself to be myself. I flip on the lights and the greasy mirror shows me something I am familiar with, yet something not entirely comfortable to behold. Blue light filters in but I ignore it, it doesn’t reach into the pits and pockets of my room and it doesn’t dip far enough into the contours of my face to separate it from the background. 1

“He is dead”. That is all there is to say. I can accept it for what it is or pretend that entirely different circumstances caused his untimely demise. Either way, the accusations bubble up, rising to the surface and popping ungracefully around me as I contemplate what it is to be a solid, good human. I make no conclusions in that moment, I have made none so far though I have pondered the subject far too often. 2

His affairs lay scattered behind him and what remains of his family frets endlessly; both to me via telephone and to the board of affairs that is poring over the evidence. They’re not sure of anything. I’m not sure of anything either but they’re still in a grief stage. I’ve already sunk to denial and I have nothing more to fear…the evidence I need is out there somewhere. 3