Murder Had A Blood Red Door On

I Wanted To Be The Moron Of The Family, Because Morons Seemed To Have More Fun, More Freedom And More Personality.

I Stared At Her Black Hair. It Was Shiny Like The Promises In Magazines.

How Could It Be That You Could Love Someone So Much And Keep It Secret From Yourself As You Woke Daily So Far From Home?

There Was Our Father, The Heart We Knew Held All Of Us. Held Us Heavily And Desperately, The Doors Of His Heart Opening And Closing With The Rapidity Of Stops On An Instrument, The Quiet Felt Closures, The Ghostly Fingering, Practice And Practice And Then, Incredibly, Sound And Melody And Warmth.

These Were The Lovely Bones That Had Grown Around My Absence: The Connections-sometimes Tenuous, Sometimes Made At Great Cost, But Often Magnificent-that Happened After I Was Gone. And I Began To See Things In A Way That Let Me Hold The World Without Me In It. The Events That My Death Wrought Were Merely The Bones Of A Body That Would Become Whole At Some Unpredictable Time In The Future. The Price Of What I Came To See As This Miraculous Body Had Been My Life.