Today, seconds ago, my mom came into my room, looked at me for a second—really looked at me, the way you assess a painting too complex for the human eye—and then said, “You aren’t a fuck-up son, and it isn’t your fault, what happened to Mandy.”
Silence.
“I know, you don’t talk. It’s your thing, right?”
Right.
“Shit went down with Mandy, didn’t it? Holt said some stuff when we were together.”
Yeah, shit did go down.
“Well, tell her ghost to leave my son alone, okay?”
And, just as she left my room to go find some low-salary job, most likely bagging groceries or answering calls, I called out, quietly, “Trust me, mom, she’s already long gone.”
