My life is filled with fiction now.  I live it.  I breathe it.  I am a story.  The three of us are.  Me, Lu and Silas, we are a story that people tell to one another about ‘this terrible thing that happened to some people I know.’

Our tale is a fairy-less affair that adults tell to each other to remind themselves of how lucky they are and to scare the shit out of themselves.   It’s a moment to shudder and pray, then there’s a deep breath and a long sigh of thanks that this is not their life.

I wish it wasn’t ours, either. I spend most of the time during my day pretending it’s not.  My fictions are tight and close. They are short, tiny stories that last less than a sentence.

“Good, I’m good,” I say, or “Doing alright, how are you?”  Those are lies, but I wish they were true.  They feel good to say because I’m getting there.  We can’t help but have fun together, Lu and I.  We laugh, we are silly, we shove aside the shit of life and get on with living.  Our little lies are wishes we are trying to make come true.

Our lives are not destroyed.  We will heal. Our friends and family are okay and healing, too.  2009 will be better than 08.  Over and over we try to convince each other and ourselves that we are not standing amidst a complete and utter disaster.

The tough part is how normal it all looks.  Our lives are identical to what they were a year ago in every superficial way and yet it all feels so horribly wrong.  That’s where the deeper stories live.  These are the crazy ones, the tales I have been telling myself on those long drives around the state selling coffee.

The one I keep coming back to is the story of Silas’ soul.  Where September 25th happened just as it did, but then a whole other series of events occurred that are utterly beyond my understanding.  That story I dwell on because there’s no specific answer but so many correct ones.

Is he at the bar that David Byrne so eloquently described?  Where nothing ever happens but where it’s always so much fun?

Or is it more cloud-like and choirly with shitloads of angels doting on his every need (do you need things in Heaven?) and harps and feathery wings and a giant God that just hangs out helping him enjoy the Heaven-ness?

On the other hand, maybe that day didn’t go at all as planned.  Maybe Death was drunk and screwed up completely.  Maybe right now Silas is kicking the shit out of Death because Death really dropped the ball on this one.

I also can’t help but consider that life on this Earth is just one stage of the soul’s journey and that for whatever reason the next place the soul goes really really really really needed Silas’ help so they took him super-early, lickty-split, and now he’s saving Worlds and is some kind of Superhero in the next phase of existence.  This one makes me smile, and that’s rare when considering the many lies I now live.

That’s because the truth is too fucking brutal.  Even with the truth of our lives so obvious and present, I cannot help but tell more lies.

This story starts one single, direct, beautiful and correct way, but ends in every possible fashion.  It starts off where September 25th went off without a hitch and we are a tiny family of three assassin on down the avenue, a King, a Queen and a tiny beautiful Prince in our arms.  That’s the story I almost cannot even think about, but the one I cannot avoid, ever.

Once there, the stories become even more beautiful and true, and even more terrible to consider.  Not all end well.  Death, misfortune, illness and unhappiness can consume lives and wound souls.  That Silas lived is no guarantee that he would have had a perfect and blissful life.  The opposite, obviously.  But I have to believe it would be good, good so good to have Silas here with us, no matter what, no matter all the many ways it could have gone.

I live here, but my mind and soul are searching for ways to understand what we are going through.  The fictions give me strength to move forward every day.

No matter what kind of teenager he turned out to be, we would have loved him.  And there’s so much more beyond that it will take me a lifetime to describe.

I would give anything for Silas to be here on this Earth.

I would die if he could come back new.  So would Lu.  But that can’t happen, so onward we go.  And somehow, every day, we’ll laugh and love each other and think of our son.

Someday our fictions could come true.

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