Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

My reflection betrays what I’m feeling—nothing. No nerves, no sadness. Maybe that will change once we get there, to the place where the service is being held, or maybe it never will. Maybe there’s no right way to mourn someone who hasn’t been in my life for eighteen years.

If we don’t remember something, how can we be sure it never happened?

But I have no regrets, because I know now that she wasn’t crazy. I’m not sure anyone is. I think it’s just easier to call someone crazy than it is to admit that they could be right. Easier to call someone crazy than to confront the nuance of their circumstance, than to accept the callous cruelty that exists in the world we live in, the evil out there that revels in our suffering.