Await Your Reply (2009)
“Ever since his death, this had become a regular occurrence, these minor hallucinations, tricks of perception.
Here, for example, was his mother, standing on a busy street corner on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, her back to him, opening an umbrella as she hurried into a crowd.
Here was Walcott, sitting in the window of a bus full of rowdily singing fraternity brothers. This was in Philadelphia, not far from Penn, and Ryan stood there staring as they were borne past, all of them tunelessly caro...ling along with Bob Marley.
Their eyes met, his and Walcott’s, and for a second Ryan could have sworn that it truly was him, though the Walcott on the bus just peered out at him, his mouth moving, “Every little thing gonna be all right,” they were singing, and Ryan was aware of motion passing over him, a shadow of a bird or a cloud.
This is what it would be like to see a ghost, he thought, even though he was the one who was dead.
He knew it wasn’t really them. He was aware that it was just a trailing cobweb of subconscious, a misfiring synapse of memory, an undigested bit of the past playing games with him.MoreLess
Here, for example, was his mother, standing on a busy street corner on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis, her back to him, opening an umbrella as she hurried into a crowd.
Here was Walcott, sitting in the window of a bus full of rowdily singing fraternity brothers. This was in Philadelphia, not far from Penn, and Ryan stood there staring as they were borne past, all of them tunelessly caro...ling along with Bob Marley.
Their eyes met, his and Walcott’s, and for a second Ryan could have sworn that it truly was him, though the Walcott on the bus just peered out at him, his mouth moving, “Every little thing gonna be all right,” they were singing, and Ryan was aware of motion passing over him, a shadow of a bird or a cloud.
This is what it would be like to see a ghost, he thought, even though he was the one who was dead.
He knew it wasn’t really them. He was aware that it was just a trailing cobweb of subconscious, a misfiring synapse of memory, an undigested bit of the past playing games with him.MoreLess
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