Any evidence is enough evidence because love is a documented thing, left in postcards and film which didn’t exist until dead, and you’ll take a scrap of apology and you’ll sleep better, and every meeting will go better, because the hanging weight’s a little lighter. And this, your brother, is a liar you never thought lied, never knew existed, and you can alter lives momentarily and you do and the slideshow makes it worth it, although, actually, the past shouldn’t impact on the present, when you think about it. There’s meant to be a move on, learn from process, which you are totally not at ease with. You’re uncomfortable even now with the idea you could be somebody’s sister, daughter, girl. That you stack up to more than a breath mint.

If You’re Going To Hell, I’ll Just Come Pick You Up

Jack says, “Shouldn’t we hedge bets? Pick a side? Pretend we know where we’re going when we don’t, and we’re less sure than we were in primary school?” But I wavered, had a penchant for stories that led to performances in front of parents, even though I was relegated each time a play was cast, was always an extra angel, a shepherd with a well tied head dress.

“Couldn’t you tell,” I ask him, “if I was half-hearted about this? Wouldn’t you know that every word was a construct or lie designed to keep your interest, all just part of an end game, not about you at all.”

“I don’t think I can tell now what you’re thinking,” he tells me, and I ask, “Really? You can’t tell now?” and Jack replies, “If you asked me how many fingers you were holding up as you held them in front of me I wouldn’t see, I couldn’t know. I’m trying so hard to read you sometimes I overlook the simple stuff. If I knew how you felt about god, gods, a god, I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t. I don’t know where you think we go when we’re gone.”

“Nowhere,” I tell him, “or anywhere. Kind of where we think we should be. At the moment, I’m stuck in the middle, trying to choose, deciding if it’s either/or or neither at all, because we’re fucked every way I see it.”