“Because if you had asked him the same question about me when he was alive, he’d give the same answer.”
“So you feel he wasn’t a . . . Was he not a presence in your life?”
I felt like rolling up the sleeve on my left arm and unveiling his presence.
“Look, all writing is deception. Writers counterfeit reality. Whether it be a travelogue, or a poem, or something you jot down in your diary and forget about. It’s a forgery. The fact we put things in writing doesn’t auto-reckon them authentic or true.”
Despite my defensiveness, I was surprised at how easily it came out. She was still, for a moment staring just past me, then began jotting down some thoughts. I was sure that whatever I said next would decide whether or not I would be portrayed as a sociopath.
“I mean, of course he was a pres
