Death of a Ventriloquist

The Nots

73 The Nots A writer is accountable also for what he chooses not to write. —Edmond Jabés I haven’t described the flight path of my shouts at two toddlers in a car. I’ve said little of my father, a dash. I’ve not been head in hands, unable to stop my baby’s wails. That wasn’t me, slack-jawed before a screen, vacant as neon, forgetting my own name. Not once have I forgotten my son on his birthday or how to touch my wife. That was someone else who tightened your heart with a skate key. Confessed not being the cherry atop a Manhattan, nor a tiny umbrella crinkling over a daiquiri. No tantrums on or off the page. I told none of the stories I wished to. They turned out to be tangles of nerve fibers unjoined, two roads without a bridge between. I’ve not spread my arms wide as they would and said, Do with me what you will. This page intentionally left blank. ...