The dead can’t speak, he tells himself.
But the house is filled with voices. He walks from room to room wondering if he’s missed anything. The movers are coming the next day. Certain furniture is tagged with the name of someone and the instructions, “Do not remove,” in his father’s handwriting. On a blotter, on a desk, among the many scribbles and doodles accumulated over the years, a childish hand has written, “I hate momy.” Who wrote this, when and why?
Then it comes to him.
He pulls out his phone. “Mom?…I just wanted to say that I love you.”