I look in my hand. The envelope is plain, white. No markings on the outside. I know what’s inside. He’s tried to give it to me before, but I always refused the clipping. What is paper to me? The words and truth have sunk like ink into the white of my soul, leaving it spoiled. The title on the newspaper article reads “Beckson dies minutes after shot; Police hunt for clues on gunman’s identity.” The article clipped from the L.A. Times confirms two of the most painful truths of my life: When I was twelve, I watched as my father was shot and moments later, died, and I can’t remember anything about it.
I couldn’t do anything to stop it.