I want to tell my son that I am so sorry. Death is in the room with me now, doing squats beside the air conditioner. We wear identical socks. Socks embroidered with white rabbits. While I wait, I Command F my life for mentions of my son, details that might justify his absence. Or maybe I’m looking for a contradiction, a counterargument, proof that I wasn’t such a bad mother, after all. No matches. I shut the screen, inconsolable because my cursor is gone.
