Lying on his stomach after school, he is listening to old Bob Dylan records, propped up on his elbows. The carpet is musty with forgotten laundry, cookie crumbs, dust, modelling clay. Downstairs, the gentle clink of dishes and fizz of butter in a pan, the preparation of dinner.
In the first few days afterwards, they woke and slept with no real regularity. The horror of it all lent a sense of unreality to the dust, the ashes, the collapsed and crumbling walls. The moon still rose and fell, and sometimes stars glittered faintly through the haze. Sleep was a refuge. But the dreams became intolerable.
One jade plant, thriving just to spite me. Last watered 29 days ago. She bought it at one of those corner store florists on Fraser Street, because the owner said it would bring prosperity. I don’t know if it worked or not. Her money always seemed to turn into stationery or pussy willows or pointless knick-knacks.