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On Hanging Out with the Dead
The Reckoning, Chapter 972910983
Grieving, like dinner, is a stupid thing to do alone. Today, I’m alone in it.
I covered all the mirrors in my apartment, threw open the windows, put on all black. You can’t keen alone either, you know. You have to wait for the keener to start it off and then you get to wail.
Today, everyone looks like her from behind.
I got the news from a journalist named Kathy. “You may have heard by now,” Kathy emailed me, “that is [sic] appears authorities in the Berkshires have found Meghan’s remains.”
I had not heard.
“I am wondering if you might have time to speak with us via ZOOM.”
No, Kathy, I do not. In fact, go fuck yourself. (Kathy is just doing her job, but then, so are vultures.)
I’m writing about it because I can’t seem to cry about it yet.
Last weekend, I couldn’t sleep. I was debating whether to keep trying to when my phone started playing “Breathe (In the Air)” by Pink Floyd, all on its own. When that song comes up, I know it’s her. She wanted me to go outside.
There was nothing for it then but to tiptoe out to the driveway, pull my sleeping bag onto the hood of my car and lay there looking at infinity. She sat…
