shades past 'william, he lives with the broom.' an odd thing to say, not least because the broom didn't have a proper home to speak of. those days were hectic (not that these aren't). the before times, practically living on top of each other alongside a busy road. half a room per person, more or less. kids underfoot. toys everywhere. nothing tidy bit we tried to keep clean. and yet some mornings it wasn't as bad as when we went to bed. 'william did it. he lives with the broom.' the house wasn't really old, not really. not quite a century. but it felt its age. old oil paint bubbled in the humidity, a full bodied mid-century pink peeling from the modern greens and greys layered on top. we didn't always find the flakes. 'william did it, daddy, he lives with the broom.' i was spending my days in my archives, my hands covered with the dust of degrading paper and my ears full of the humming of distance microfilm. between the binders of finding aids and annual reports lay the city directories. there in the bound volumes, between the ads, was listed a name as the first resident of my then home. william, janitor at the normal school. he took the long torn out streetcar from this once suburb all the way downtown, then back again at night. the next day, the broom had moved. we couldn't find it. 'william did it' i thought laughing. the broom was in the living room behind a lamp, an odd spot but i left it there in my rush to leave. back to work, rolling the microfilm that day, i found the obituary of one of my scientists in the journal reel from october 1935. immediately below something popped: it was our william, 'died at home in his living room wednesday last.' back home early that day, the toys were picked up and broom moved again. william did it. 220308 ... past his remission marked the first crisis of the grieving_year. they thought he had beat it. he was getting so strong. his laugh full of life as he looked at his baby sister, as he chased and played tricks on his younger brothers. but cancer knows no pity. it grows and it grows and it consumes and it does its best to exist until it exhausts its host. and then both boy and disease are gone. but even as his breath slowed, and then stopped, he held on. this was his home, why would he leave even though his body was laid to rest? it's a gentle haunting: a playful flickering of the lights. sitting in his niece's chair and winking as he appeared to only her causing her to stand petrified, demanding the adults in the room to tell her who was in her seat. putting on his favourite radio station, full blast, when everyone else was asleep. if he couldn't continue his good natured mischievousness in life, at least death gave him a second chance. 220331 ... past gets a key word wrong relapse not remission 220331 what's it to you? who go blather from