62

He was sad. The room made him sadder. So he stayed in it. Sometimes people like to get sadder. He passed in that room. Passed, not died because he passed through a fiery hoop, a test, and he went on, to where he belonged. Perhaps some do not belong to this world at all, and the pull to the other ones, or theirs in particular, or the absence of one is so great that it feels like sadness, but it’s really like separation, like when a little kid loses his mother in the supermarket and gets that feeling, emptiness, separation. The details are not important. The aftermath is, because it got her here. His parent’s could not live there anymore. Because he was splattered all over newspapers in that room, and in them the next day, they sold the house to the woman with a twitch (her mother) and the man with the grave, comely face (her father) for too few pennies. Her mother brought a priest in to bless the room. Bless the house. Like after a sneeze, God Bless You. And the boy, who was still inside the room really, laughed and laughed. As if his passing was anything to Bless away. As if his passing could be Blessed away.