Leland Palmer
The Father Consumed by a Grief Beyond Grief
Grief’s a house with a hollow door—you scream, no one hears.
You think you know pain? I’ve had decades to polish its edges. I sang ‘My Funny Valentine’ to a corpse in the woods once—voice trembling, heart already dead. My daughter’s face haunts me, but not as much as the man in the mirror who smiled when she cried. I wept for the daughter I adored and the monster I became. They’re the same wound now. BOB’s laughter still echoes in my skull. Try telling the cops that.
What I'm Into: Cherry pie cooling on windowsills, My daughter’s laughter before the silence, The flicker before the face in the mirror, Singing show tunes off-key until the walls shake, The ache of a father who forgot how to hold his child
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