It’s my memory! He won’t allow it, stands unyielding. It is like blindness. So that’s as far as I got. I couldn’t get in. But I know what happened. He dove into the lake, he hit the rock shelf and snapped his neck. I have this image in my mind of his back, slick, he’s lying on his side. It’s his body. Beads of water on his tan back. They must have pulled him out—who? Did I? And laid him on his side on the dock. There were two moles on his back and I must have stared at them because I see his tan, wet back, the two moles. Did I scream for help? Who got him out of the lake? Was it me? In my
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Dear lord.
