This room: square and cluttered; the ceiling fan with its faux wood blades spinning counter-clockwise, mechanical and precise. My guitar, wrapped up in its synthetic case, mum and triste: waiting, waiting.

Three books next to me: Plath's Unabridged Journals (biblish; very black); a book of collected short fictions (Hemingway, Twain, Poe, Tolstoi, Saki...); a discounted Webster thesaurus (Walmart at $6.98), its yellowing pages smelling of crayon boxes: reminiscent of kindergarten.

His photograph stands mocking on my nightstand (dated: 1974-1975) . His eight-year old child-face staring back at my melancholia: blank and dead. Blond hair, gap-toothed, sea-blue eyes: some regular white boy.

My heart starts and stops. My eyes, wet with sad waters.