My father was assassinated by a terrorist organization.
They targeted him specifically.
He was handsome.
He had faith.
My mother used to say my father's favorite food was gravy.
On Christmas we would eat chicken, pork, beans -- anything and gravy.
My mother would lift the boat and swallow gravy down until the boat was empty. Like she was drinking blood. The idea of blood. Blood of my father.
The terrorists were never caught.
They paid someone off.
Or, no one cared enough to make the effort.
My father had a big mouth and he was not well-loved by the politicos or the gendarme.
I don't have a taste for gravy.
It is moon white and I sit on the fence in the front.
It is deep dark and the night is quiet, punctuated by the mournful hoot of the owl, the rustle in the dry grass.
I drink red wine, swigging from the bottle.
Swigging in memory of my mother, who died this evening.
I saw her drop.
I saw her gasp.
I reached for her, filled her with my breath, but it was done.
The police left an hour ago.
The one -- Blount -- said "I'm sorry," and it felt for real, but I have a hard time knowing the difference.
The false and the true blend.
I can't tell them apart.
I swig and I watch the stars flutter in the black murk.
I wonder what happened to the men who murdered my father.
My mother was merciful.
My mother didn't believe in vengeance.
I am not my mother.
