He had, without realizing it, absorbed the professional trick of imputing grave urgency to statements of no importance.

In order to preserve energy, his last weeks were marked by a strict economy of means—pointing to an object, a nod yes or no. His final blog entry, posted at 4 am, read “blog entry.”

People seldom remembered having already met him.

Other worlds they have not told you of, that wish to speak to you.
—Herman Poole Blount

He remembered the results of a study finding that over 50% of people you consider friends don’t reciprocate. Although in his case this was more or less irrelevant, he still found it depressing.

Time reveals in some the bowling ball-head gene, and in others the cinderblock-head gene.

His last words were, does fish sauce go in the refrigerator, but she didn’t hear them. She was in the shower.

Our neighbor ran a small extermination business from a remodeled garage behind his house. Some weekends we’d sneak in, fascinated by a wall display of such mounted horrors as a freakish two-headed moth with a 12-inch wingspan. Later I discovered that every exterminator had one of these as part of their standard franchise package, fabricated by XYZ Pest Museum in Silver City, NM.

Normally he anticipated this cold black season with dread, but this year it suited him. It was what he deserved. He was locked in for the siege.

I did my best, which is nothing, which is what you’ve come to expect.

Others experienced his presence as an absence in themselves.

If you make the mistake of asking him something, his eyes glaze over and his mouth twitches into the private smile of a predator who’s just found his victim. Well, he says, that’s an interesting question. In the endless pause that follows, you think, oh shit, we’re in for it now.

Poor kid, starting to look like her father.

Dry leaves clatter across the driveway. School supplies. Football. Death.

Going back to writing on tablets. Not electronic ones. Short pieces carved in stone.