For two days, questions have thrashed around the vortex of my mind and I’ve been unable to find an answer amongst the disarray. In no order, thoughts, concepts, subtle movements and noises are being absorbed but not processed. I’ve begun to notice some things for the first time, small insignificant things. Like the seal of my white Georgian sash bedroom window allows air to seep inside and gently blow the curtains. The door between the kitchen and hallway squeaks as it opens and closes, loud enough to be heard upstairs. Scotch appears to grow lighter in colour as the volume in your glass diminishes. I hear voices sometimes, coming and going, saying nothing of consequence. Generally, people are sorry, sorry for our loss and the tragedy of Alzheimer’s. They never apologise for hiding from my father as his illness got worse and they never acknowledge that it was not Alzheimer’s in the end but me, his only child, who killed him. The day it happened, the day he was murdered, I kicked and punched but Jackson still brought Sandy and me home.
