What I keep coming back to is that she sat in that hospice room for four days waiting for him to say one true thing, and he didn’t, and so she went out and said it herself.
That’s not justice. I know what justice would have looked like and this isn’t it.
But I’m sitting at a donated kitchen table in an apartment with a window that opens, and last night I turned off every light in the place just to see how dark it would get.
It got all the way dark.
I sat in it for a long time.
Then I got out a pencil, and in the back of a Bible I still don’t believe in, under eight thousand four hundred and thirty-nine, I started counting again. Day one. Day two.
Reuben had it right. Counting isn’t about tomorrow.
It’s about saying somebody was alive in this body, on this date.
