Staring still

[boccaderlupo]

The story was that when they found him, he was sitting stock still, staring straight off into the distance, like someone waiting for the next train to arrive, lost in a trance. He had just been exercising, apparently, and stepped off the home exercise machine and sat down, and that was that.

He was a major figure in his industry, and the outpouring of grief was significant. He had a rare charisma and a keen sense of human nature, and yet I was never entirely certain how honest he was being with himself—or anybody else, for that matter. Still, his passing left a mark. I'd talked to him maybe the day before, and I'm certain he was plotting his next moves for world domination up until he wasn't.

I dreamed I was walking through the woods at night and encountered his ghost, floating above a bed of moss, of a blue-greenish tint like a flame. He was talking excitedly and without stopping or slowing down about the wonders of the afterlife. I tried to tell other people that I'd seen him, but no one would listen.

In the same dream I cradled my son in my arms, him just an infant once more, rocking back and forth on a sofa in the dark.