Krista holds up her hand,
speaking for herself.
“Why not?”
He traces the curve of the guitar’s body
with his palm,
and I want more than ever to be him
for one moment,
touching the smooth wood.
I would make it sing.
Finally he says,
“Writing his song
would be too much like saying good-bye.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it!”
Before she can finish translating,
I point straight at his heart.
“You’ve been saying nothing
but good-bye
since the night I died.
All you care about
is me passing on,
getting out of your life.”
Krista speaks my words,
inflecting them just like me,
and I wonder how much anger
is mine
and how much is hers.
Mickey says,
“I just want him to be at peace.”
“No!” I hurl back.