Cut to me at 19 driving my Dad home from rehab, again, kissing him on the cheek before he went into the apartment. Zoom in on me saying, “I Love you Daddy.” As I drive away, back to college and dorm room and parties and a boy I might just be in love with.

Who was that guy, he lived above me. We used to go to the beach and watch the sun rise. Mark. Mike. Mickey. His name was Mickey, like the mouse. He hated it. He was cute. I might’ve loved him. He died though, I think, a few months ago. Not drugs, something normal. Car crash or something.

Cut to my dad going in the ground, and me, 20 surrounded by junkies and dealers and illegitimate siblings trying to establish relationships with each other and whining about how they barely ever saw him. Cut to my mom, refusing to go to the funeral, refusing to talk about him again.

It’s gotta be well into morning. I’ve been lying on this floor for at least eight hours. Those dots are gone. I wonder if I still have a retina. I guess I would know.