is when all the air leaves the room because you hear the words, “…we found your son’s body…” and you don’t hear anything else. But someone in the background is screaming, “I don’t understand, I don’t understand…” and it might be you.

The last kiss…

A few days before he died. He was at the computer in the den. He needed to use our printer. I walked up behind him and bent down and kissed the top of his head. I remember it still. His smell, his scratchy, thick hair. He had his granddad Hayes’ hair. The next time I kissed him was the day we saw his body. His skin was cold but his hair felt the same. He was dressed in his good shirt and his South Park tie. They had his hair brushed back so I had to pull it forward and muss it a bit so it would look more natural. That was the last kiss, but it didn’t count, he couldn’t feel it any more.


It was a Friday when we buried Malcolm. The next day I broke into pieces. Like a mirror made of ice, the pieces of me melted and I evaporated. I looked in the mirror and I wasn’t there; I think I just couldn’t be present to the hurt. I took a razor to my arm and cut, “I love you Malc, be at peace.” I wanted it to last forever. I didn’t feel the pain. The blood surprised me; I felt like a spectator.


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