He turned, coffee cup in hand, and headed back to his own little cubicle farm plot. I felt cheated even in the face of kinship. My telling had not been answered in kind. But I knew the make and model of his pain and the offense was erased even in its creation.

His recognition of my pain had emphasized it. Bold, italics, underscore. The image of that day projected on the screen of my mind. Goofy 3D glasses were unnecessary for this showing as the scene was etched in full relief forever in memory.

Twisted metal and grey clouds flirting with black. I saw the coroner’s sheets revealing nothing more that the footwear choice of the day. Those blank sheets spoke volumes to futures that would never see print; my two sisters would never write their own life stories.

I jerked out of my reverie in favor of the monotony of work, sweet-bland relief that it was. The lament that lingered was typified by a single image. A silent, lifeless yellow light-box that had had given birth to the bane of my life that remained.