My grandfather was never seen without his golden pocketwatch, with its unmistakeable hand-etched surface, to the point that he was buried with it tucked in the breastpocket of his suit. So strange, then, to see that same pocketwatch upon my pillow several months after his death.
I live alone. The noises at night suggest otherwise.
Since I’m on my deathbed, I might as well be honest: your father may not have been dead when I buried him.
People have always ignored me. I was the undisputed oddball within any assemblage of random people and it seemed as if the world was determined to pretend I didn’t exist. Now that I’m dead, I’ve decided that it’s time to change all that.
My son has the most beautiful singing voice. It’s powerful, too: it carries through the house, across a theatre, and, these days, even from the grave.