Dad’s house reeks. Of bad coffee and cheap wine. My uncle talks at me through the odor. I barely hear him over the other mourners, rambling about how I look just like dad did at this age.
“If only you hadn’t got all these tattoos,” he says. He points at one in particular—a barcode from my favorite cereal brand over the left eyebrow.
I shrug at the comment. Stare at my wine glass. If I focus my consciousness on the swirling merlot, I’ll keep this bullshit conversation from recording onto my slate. That’s the trick these days—If you don’t want something damned into a forever memory, look away.
Continue reading “Mind Sweep by JJ de Melo”
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