The Demented Drift and Resentment in the Ranks

It’s 2am the night before my nephew’s first communion and I want to die. I'm sitting on the sofa listening to ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ while holding a charcoal portrait I drew of Shannon a few years ago. Silver tears rain down upon the page creating dark streams that flow from the paper down on to the afghan shawl I have draped around my person. For countless hours I sit and study the movement of shadows against the wall. I mumble and moan our old favorite song, “Pack up all my care and woe, here I go, singing low, Bye bye blackbird..." The more I think about her, the more I realize that I’ve always been at the heel of her boot. My sick sense of humor has left me in the lurch and ultimately scared shitless.