I saw his car this morning in the rain. An old red Volvo wagon. I remember that its paint was faded one way on the roof and differently on the rest. I wonder who was driving it.

I pass the pool hall where we used to play and his ghost is there. And at the school where he worked. He echoes through the Art Museum - we went there the day they reopened. Even the dartboard in my basement bothers me once in a while.

This town reeks of him, of his categorical disagreement with being.

They say that to write is human, and to edit, divine. But no human can edit himself out of the world. Echoes linger, focused by the canyons of place and circumstance, and speak to us in the present. But we are not allowed to answer, and that contradiction colors everything. Two different fading reds deny the possibility of never having been.