Chapter 51

I’m scraping my hippocampus for memories of the shadow man who flitted in and out of my life, making brief cameos and little concrete impression.

Did I sense something about that man at the time? Did I intuit the import of Harry, the Pigeon-man who was Grandma’s true love?

Did I deliberately bury this instinct? Was it too strange for a child to contemplate? Or record as memory?

I honestly can’t remember.

I’m aware of the failings of my own memory, its fragility.

Something else strikes me. Perhaps I wasn’t particularly aware of Harry’s periodic presence. But perhaps I was aware of something else: the changing moods in my grandmother.

Sometimes she seemed happier. Sometimes she sang a little bit more, seemed purer and less distracted. Sometimes, so inspired.

Were those the times Harry was near?

Did I sense that Grandma led a double life? Or that she needed more than one thing to keep her happy?

Does it scare me to feel so connected to her malady?

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