I sit with toast and tea despite my stomach's morning sickness rejection of it. Toddler giggles float through the room and calmness sits at my feet. A knock. Excited bounciness follows me down the hall to the door. A policeman in black and yellow stands at the step. "Granny!" chirps my little one to my mother as she walks up the path. She is fidgety but in control. They come in and I am asked to sit down. The police officer's words fly into my ears and buzz like bees into my mind. But I don't cry. I am not sad. I am not shocked. It doesn't hurt, and I don't know why. But the buzzing stays. They leave and I clear away my dishes. I can't remember his face. I don't cry but I am frightened. I go upstairs to my photograph album, but there is none of him. His face is gone. But I remember his hair, short and cleanly white. It's all I can remember. It soothes me.
Now I can remember. Time has moved and the buzzing which took my memory of him has gone. I have a part of him now. Reams of little white wires poke through the dark and they still soothe.
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