Oh, a Night.

The man who tried to shoot my mother and I is now dying of cancer. She visits him every night. But I can’t forget the echo of the gun or how fast my heart beat. I can’t erase the smell of liquor on his breath or the taillights of my mother as she, without me, drove off and left. I can’t un-feel the grass on my soles or the cool breeze of that March. I can’t unhear how he said my name in the tone of a man ready to die. I can’t unsee the gun pointed towards my face, then at his, as he noticed the tears in my eyes. He’s dying of cancer, and she visits him every night. But I’ve been living with his death ever since the incident, the one she never admits.