Someone I know thinks I failed at writing him down. He thinks
I should be ashamed of myself, and when he gets ugly with it, calling
me out of my name, people become excited. What was wrong with me,
one man asked him, why did I write so wrong, and the one who was not
written says, this man knows nothing about you and me.
Because, perhaps, his memory began to fail him, my father began telling
us his stories. When we heard the betrayal, we understood he'd been
too hurt before to speak. Then, when he accused us of stealing from
him, we began to assume he was grieving all of his new losses. Now,
betrayals later, we don't know what to think.
I bet by now you're wanting a story. I could speak of some feeling
and you could recognize one of your own, in your body, and we could
let this settle our griefs. And if the story is this fragment, and
this would be the story I could stick with, you wouldn't begrudge
me much, would you.