There used to be four. Four toothbrushes standing together in a castaway Tupperware container. How I loved the colour of them—there is so little of it in our lives—red and green and blue and purple, so chosen by Medicine Man so we would each have our own to use. They represented our individuality. But now the purple one, Tom’s, is gone. A great hole has opened in our lives. For a moment, grief breaks through. I push it down, bury it deep, pave it over. We just have to keep going. Tomorrow, tomorrow after tomorrow, a week, Nephew says. A week? we say. It was supposed to be yesterday. No, yesterday before yesterday. News good, he says. One million in Iraq, one more million from Canada, we count all the money, phone call from Big Haji, one week and go. We are staying here, then? Yes. And what about Tom? He shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know. He was at home, off duty when all of this happened. He offers each of us a candy wrapped in crinkly gold paper. No thank you, I want to say, I’m not interested in your pathetic attempt to make everything better.
