Merry Christmas from the Afterlife
I can see them when I sneak out from the basement, walk to the front of the house and peek into the windows like a pervert, but I cannot participate in their life. I can hear them occasionally talking about me, but the longer I’m down here, the less I come up in conversation. In another few days, I expect to hear the voice of a man telling Katie he’ll love Harry like he was his own just before he moves his shit into my house.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?