The Promise

by Damon Galgut

It’s not uncommon, the dead are frequently unable to accept their condition, they resemble the living in that respect, but they have forgotten what they’re nostalgic for, much is lost in the crossing over, and when they see you they do not know you.

It is not always possible to please two white people simultaneously.

A commotion of longing and revulsion inside. How did it become so complicated? Home used to mean only one Thing, not a blizzard of things at war.

What used to seem blank and stupid in her, almost like brain damage, now seems like the opposite, silence and attentiveness, a kind of intelligence.

Odd how certain people, often random individuals, can pulse with significance in your thoughts, your dreams.

So why does he not do it, the sensible thing? Dunno, just always been like that. Can see the right action and will not perform it. Performs instead the other action, the wrong one, in order to vex you, and himself.

You’re a branch that’s losing its leaves and one day you’ll break off. Then what? Then nothing. Other branches will fill the space. Other stories will write themselves over yours, scratching out every word. Even these.