The grief, and the guilt it travelled with, would arrive, unannounced, but expected, somewhere on the cusp of dawn. When the drawn curtains on the front windows let in some, but not, much daylight, while he stood at the sink, washing dishes now, to not have to later.
These goblins would scamper across the linoleum floor, between his ankles, and then, when engrossed in removing a particularly tough bit, they’d run up his legs to his shoulders, settle in and start whispering. Not in words, those he could ignore. Instead, they fanned photographs showing,
the past, the past, the past.