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Wondering

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I wonder if my family watches me. From above, I mean. From Heaven.
I wonder if they saw me slice into myself every night for years after August 4the, 2008.
I wonder if they say me lose myself in a bottle, in a fog of smoke.
I wonder if they watched as man after man came into my life only to leave 2 hours later when thee clothes came back on and thee Sun smiled its light thorough thee windows.
I wonder if they look into my dreams and relive thee murderous night all over again as I do.
I wonder if they ever even found heaven. They were all atheist. How do you find a place you don't believe in?
My mother used to say heaven was a fairytale for people that were scared of dieing, so they came up withe a way to live forever. Eternal life thorough Christ.
I wonder if she's changed. If death has warmed her heart, humbled her soul.
My father was an engineer. Specifically, a train engineer. He came home every night oil and grease caked into the deep lines of his dark face. When he was killed, though, he was clean; dressed in clean jeans and a clean button down shirt. He would whine though, saying how awkward he felt being so neat. How much more accustomed he was to dirt and grime from a hard days work. I wonder if he still feels this way. If maybe, just maybe, he himself cleaned up some after that single bullet ruined his clean clothes.
I wonder if wondering is even logical. Why question the life of the dead? Why think about them at all? They are dead. Gone. Forever.
I wonder though... still I wonder.




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