Remember that trick book, hollowed out, where a kid could stash a condom
and a bottle of Fireball? Gilt-edged pages like the real thing, if you don’t look
close. That’s me. A parent I trusted said she searched her kids’ rooms while
they were at school. At the time, this made sense; I discovered each shock
hurt less than the one before. The child I thought I knew faded and drifted
to the gas station, Taco Bell, the bonfire in the field flanked by cars.
Someone stole wallets from the unlocked ones. Someone posted pictures of
the thief, who wore white athletic shoes. As far as we know, that thief is still
at large, trailing years of my hopes, unfurled. The speed at which words and
images travel is killing me: a hurricane, a tornado, a quiet ping. For a ghost,
my child looms surprisingly large and loud, singing in the shower, his dirty
clothes scattered on the bathroom floor.