Rabbit Hole

by Kate Brody

In America, we drive on the right side of the road. In Maine we drive on what’s LEFT of the roads.

He likes going to the shooting range on weekends. I hear myself tell him that it sounds like he’s good with his hands. I hear myself tell him that I’d like to learn how to shoot a gun, even though it’s a thought that has never occurred to me before.

“You know, when she was alive,” Bill says, “I wrote all these eulogies for her. In my head. I rehearsed it.” I nod. I’ve done that, too. For Angie. For my dad. Even my mom. “But then she died for real, and I didn’t even have a funeral. I didn’t write an obit. I just buried her. To be done with it.”

Geezus. Truth

“Don’t lie to me,” I manage. “Okay?” “Okay,” Bill says, his eyes trained on my mouth. “But no more talking.”

You shouldn’t be able to love bad people. You shouldn’t be able to miss them.

There’s no returning to how it was. Things that are broken cannot be unbroken.