There is a reliquary on a ledge outside the bathroom.
No one really knows why. I mean, that was the winter my father tried to kill himself.
I was getting a haircut when I received the call. Then I kept receiving it forever.
I was talking about the Christmas preparations at the time. Debating the kinds
of lights to get or something.
It must have been a muddy time, said someone. Actually, it was terrifying.
Later the doctor told us it was impossible to tell what anything meant,
though he didn’t use those words.
Someone used the metaphor of the iceberg. You know, what’s showing and what’s not. Someone
else mentioned black holes. None of it made sense but I guess they were nice gestures?
I mean, at least they were trying?
Someone still had to buy groceries and shovel the snow and all that.
Then my father cashed out the savings account and gave us each a check.
I kept trying to piece together events as though the questions could be answered logically. Then I realized I had all the wrong questions.
Someone strung yellow tape to the driver’s side door of the car.
No one knew who had brought flowers.
Some actions are more meaningful. Like leaving a note.
Then I remembered the baby.
Oh no, where was the baby?
"Cenotaph" originally appeared in Arena (Cleveland State University Press, 2020) and is reprinted here by kind permission of the author.
