So, I can’t tell you I wasn’t mad or that we loved the nice version of you. I felt the blade of my guilt and measured its sharpness against your death. When I finally hung up the phone, I ran outside, through the cold, toward the mailbox to see if you had reached out one last time. We both knew how it happened you had been trying to tell us for years. She spoke with soft bravery about the policeman who found you and how kindly he broke the news. Small hairs stood up all over my skin when her number lit the screen. Still, I didn’t know for sure until three days later when Mom called at an unusual hour. I guess I knew there was something wrong. Pinpricks of your darkness decorated the sky like black stars. The rest of the day dragged as if through flood waters. I couldn’t ponder the meaning of the dream for long, because the pipes burst and we had to call a plumber. On the day of your escape, a gentle, mad dream lingered: a flock of birds moving as one body a cloud dispersing an undiscovered kind of rain.
I kept trying to think of a response, but I ended up with a whole book of things I was eventually going to say, but never did. I had every intention of answering your angry email, the one in all caps where you called me names and promised to haunt the crap out of me.
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