When the flies came, you were already seven months gone. They hovered over backyards and possibilities and with accessibility to ready orifices limited, propane tanks not yet fitted to sleepy barbecues, they did ugly things to my memory of you instead. I know it doesn't matter, Thomas, and it's early, but I couldn't sleep, so I mowed your lawn. (Well, it's the Tannenbaum's lawn now, but somehow they don't belong there, and I wanted to tell them so--you would have, once-- but I lost my voice when you lost yours). It's chilly at home and I roam through silent rooms, shivering. Jackie joked: "I see dead people" and I kicked her out (like I'd like to kick the Tannenbaums out of your house like I'd like to kick you out of my head like you once kicked me out of bed and a depression so without reason, it seems laughable now) but I'm sorry now, because you would have seen the humor and it's so unbearably lonely. You probably know that feeling. Let's let the flies in, Thomas. I'll leave the screens off, and you keep doing exactly what you're doing. The Tannenbaums can mow their own fucking lawn.