As Good as True

by Cheryl Reid

Across the bed, on top of the sheets, his body lay stiff. The stench of vomit and shit still lingered. I opened windows and turned on the fan. No breath. No movement. Only the whir of hot air pushing across my cheek. The house was quiet with a dead man in it.

The wind was dead and the river was still. It looked dark and peaceful, like a sheet of black glass, but lurking beneath the surface was a current, cold and deep, with snakes and tangles of vegetation that could be your end. People could be the same. They could smile to your face with hatred in their heart while they pulled you down.

He shut the door in my face. That’s how I remembered my father. He called me his daughter in one breath and banished me in the next.