Alone in your room, I sat on the bed with your remains. In the corner was your empty wheelchair and your guitar, your clothes hanging in the closet. It felt like it used to except . . . you were dead. I don’t actually remember you being there. Not like when you were flying around my parlor. It was real empty in your bedroom that morning.
I had a cinnamon Jolly Rancher in my purse. Bought a bag at the Atlanta airport and pitched all but one. Figured I’d trade it for a guitar pick, but I didn’t see any picks around, so I just left it on your pillow. “Eat candy, dammit,” I said out loud and then felt stupid. Too late to send you gentle into any good night, anyway. “See you in my dreams,” I tried and it sounded even dumber. I hoped that there was no one listening outside the door trying to make up their own last words to you.
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