“After the funeral, I see him everywhere. Every time a man is shot in the head. I see him between the couch cushions. The blunt’s end, in Jamaica drinking a Red Stripe on a patch of grass, in a backyard drunk with witches dancing to Motown. Screaming from my mouth. In my lupus diagnosis. Laying in the cracks of my knuckles. Knock, knock, who’s there?”
Book:Urbanshee