The Bad Death of Eduard Delacroix

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ALL THIS OTHER WRITING ASIDE, I’ve kept a little diary since I took up residence at Georgia Pines—no big deal, just a couple of paragraphs a day, mostly about the weather—and I looked back through it last evening. I wanted to see just how long it has been since my grandchildren Christopher and Danielle more or less forced me into Georgia Pines. “For your own good, Gramps,” they said. Of course they did. Isn’t that what people mostly say when they have finally figured out how to get rid of a problem that walks and talks?

It’s been a little over two years. The eerie thing is that I don’t know if it feels like two years, or longer than that, or shorter. My sense of time seems to be melting, like a kid’s snowman in a January thaw. It’s as if time as it always was—Eastern Standard Time, Daylight Saving Time, Working-Man Time—doesn’t exist anymore. Here there is only Georgia Pines Time, which is Old Man Time, Old Lady Time, and Piss the Bed Time. The rest… all gone.

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