with ice bag on my neck

it feels a lot less like living and more like simple existence when
the kids are not here. i hate this place when they are gone. the
emptiness and the quiet too closely resemble my life. i need them here
to balance out the loneliness. i'm not whining. i'm not complaining.
this is fact.

i watch a bird dart up and up and up until i blink and lose it. i send
it a wish to deliver wherever it's going. a neighbor gives me a funny
look. i didn't know she was standing there.

"what did you say?" she asks.
"a message. a wish. a letter to God." i reply.
"do you believe in God?" she asks.
"i do." i answer.
"i never have," she says. "i can't believe He exists."
"if He does, at least all my bases are covered," i reply.

my nose bleeds for no reason, like it did when i was a kid, like
Pixie's does now from time to time. leaning over the sink, the crimson
drops splashing against the porcelain, it looks like someone has been
massacred in there. i worry for a moment that the sink will stain,
then i remember nothing is permanent.

and if anything is being massacred, it's just the old me.

ghost