Page 12 of After His Eulogy

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“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t dead.”

“No.”

“You were never dead.”

I swallow. There’s something in my throat that should not be there. “No.”

“Why.”

The whole question. He has reduced it to a word.

“I had to disappear,” I say.

“Why.”

“I couldn’t tell you. I can’t tell you.”

“Why.”

“It wasn’t… there were… I didn’t have a choice.”

“Why.”

“Griffin.”

“Why.”

I look at him. I look at his face and the face is not doing anything. The face is waiting. The face is waiting for me to give him a word that will make this make sense. I do not have a word that will make this make sense. We are going to sit here and he is going to ask why until one of us cannot do this anymore. I think it’s going to be me.

“I can’t tell you,” I say.

“You can’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t tell me why you let me bury you.”

There it is. He has not raised his voice. He has not moved. His hand is still on the back of the chair and it is white at the knuckles. That is the only thing about him that’s doing anything, the hand, gripping the wood. I am looking at the hand because I cannot look at his face.

“I had no choice,” I say.

“You had no choice.”

“No.”

“You had no choice to call me.”

“No.”

“You had no choice to send a letter. A postcard. A sign. Anything.”

“I…“

“You had no choice for two years.”

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