He sits at the back, staring off into space.
Oblivious to the moving world, uncaring and disinterested.
They move in circles and he wanders on the outside, expressing no interest whatsoever in stepping in, to join hands.
She is no more, and they crowd in around me.
Their questions tripping over themselves, tumbling over each other's heads.
Some of them are reporters, some of them are counselors and some of them are desperate to know.
He comes right up to me, his question balanced precariously on the edge of his lips.
"Did you love her?" He presents this to me, wrapped in a ribbon of a history I do not know.
"I'm her father. Of course I did."
He nods, taking my answer, folding it into himself and the many layers you are not meant to peel away.
He wanders to the corners that they have emptied out to come to me. Fits himself into the familiarity of that emptiness and disappears again, all but physically.
It should not matter, but it does.
She,
she who was not real and is now gone,
at least had a father who loved her.
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