All Stories by Boris Beck

Perhaps the Dog Was Dreaming Us
By Underpass Editors Posted on: 9/21/2015

I haven’t slept since August 28, 1991. I know the date well, because it was the day after my mother's name-day, Monica. That night we held a wake for my grandfather. The casket was closed, of course, and aside from my father, mother, and one elderly aunt, nobody was there. If it hadn’t been for the war, the room would have been packed with relatives. But as it was, those who had survived the massacre held wake for those who hadn’t. My aunt ran her thumb over her rosary; my father sat with eyes closed, as if sleeping, though I knew he wasn't; my mother lit a votive candle below a portrait of the Holy Family and checked the oil in the glass (forty-eight times that night, from the moment I started keeping track), adding a drop every time she checked.

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