Dad, if you were still here, you would die all over again. Your body would implode, like mine is trying to do. It would simply crack apart, like mine is trying to do. We are so much alike, unable to turn on others to ease our  tragicnesses, unwilling to tear someone else’s hair out to sop up the blood pouring from our gapings.

You told me in that dream, we are not like them. I thought I understood what you meant, but now I really know. You and I  are not like them. We do not attack others to make ourselves forget that we are being carried away by wolves who wholly intend to rip us apart, and feed us to their own. We do mpt become the wolves to try and forget the smell of blood in the air is our own, our childrens’, our grandchildrens’, our great grandchildrens’.

I am trying, Dad. I tried, but they are all gone now. There was a gun. There were two shots. They are all gone now.

I wish you were still here.

I’m so glad you aren’t.