: love i’m so sorry. i’m always
DOA come weekends, aren’t i
i’ll
make it up to you, to us
i
love you. (1708, Sunday,
16 9. 18)
he had an older fone it didnt retain any more than his last fifty texts
and he was texting her his nephew his brotherinlaw his daughterher husband football was on he was barbecuingChrist an octopus would have
been proud of his efforts women would have be proud of his masculine
multitaskingnot that he would ever make a habit of it it was just an extraordinary
eveningan emotional one they were all working their way through their
griefthrough his sisters death sixteen days ago sixteen days linked together dragged like a chain behind them another coarse
link to be added tomorrow and its
tomorrow and tomorrows after that her
death made all their lives heavier and slower lethargic she was a brilliant light effervescent
lighterthanair losing her was sustaining a terrible blow internal injuries breath came as if he was submerged at sea in a black storm gasping floundering gulping and slapped by a huge wave breath by breath
his sisters death suffered him his wifes death again
she wasnt thinking when she wrote DOAdead on arrival
she hadnt been well in a long
time her workweek depleted her by Thursday Friday she was sustained on fumes weekends
were an attempt to recoveryan attempt to put gas in her tank but she unable to refuel a weekend wasnt time enough even if she tried to imagine it
in minutes rather than hoursmore of them as if their number might translate permutate
into something largermore enormous more time than fortyeight hours how many seconds
what he replied was lost to the
cold technology of his fone he seemed to remember he texted that she shouldnt be sorry she should rest
try to restore
i’ll make it up to you, to us is impossible
lost time is lost time
you cant make up for it
a romantic notion
truly
unfortunately it doesnt carry real weight
it is emotional
his emotions were running at a deficit
right now
he just didnt care
0029 & 1139, Monday,
17 9. 18
