Nothing in the last month. The most recent thing was a response paper to Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye.
Maybe he’d written something by hand. I walked over to his bookshelves, looking for a journal or a notebook.
Nothing. I flipped through his copy of An Imperial Affliction. He hadn’t left a single mark in it.
I walked to his bedside table next. Infinite Mayhem, the ninth sequel to The Price of Dawn,
lay atop the table next to his reading lamp, the corner of page 138 turned down.
He’d never made it to the end of the book. “Spoiler alert: Mayhem survives,” I said out loud to him, just in case he could hear me.
And then I crawled into his unmade bed, wrapping myself in his comforter like a cocoon, surrounding myself with his smell.
I took out my cannula so I could smell better, breathing him in and breathing him out,
the scent fading even as I lay there, my chest burning until I couldn’t distinguish among the pains.
I sat up in the bed after a while and reinserted my cannula and breathed for a while before going up the stairs.
I just shook my head no in response to his parents’ expectant looks. The kids raced past me.
One of Gus’s sisters—I could not tell them apart—said, “Mom, do you want me to take them to the park or something?”
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