The Morning After My Son’s Funeral, an Airport Worker Called and Said, “Your Son Checked In”

to tell you what I said, because I worked on it for six weeks and I threw away eleven drafts, and the version I finally read was almost nothing like the ones I started with.

The early drafts were about her. What she had taken. What she had pretended. The way she had stood in my kitchen in black with her hand on my arm telling me maybe some things I continue reading …