Absent Presence



I am not afraid of the dead. I sleep in her nightgown, wear her socks on cold mornings, and while I brush my teeth, she stares back at me. I am smiling into the face of death.

I have keened in anguish as mourners do; let guilt gnaw on my mind--morsels of remembrance chewed and swallowed, a dutiful meal.

In the darkness of night we laugh, she and I, speaking of flesh flab, bone rot, sour breath. All that pain in preparation for carefree repose, the fist falling open.

Finalist in Flash Fiction Chronical's "Daylight Savings Time" Contest 11/11/2011.

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