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When I last saw him alive, Loni’s shirt was white, and his skin was white, and his hair was white from worry. Wrinkles surrounded his eyes, and some pointed down from his mouth, and others made wavy furrows across his brow. When he died, Loni was thirty-seven years old. We were in the center room on the top level of my house, near the balcony overlooking the courtyard. We did not light lamps for fear of being discovered by my husband. The moonlight lit only one side of Loni’s body, and when he moved in the light, it seemed like he was flickering on the edge of eternity, more dead than alive. Since he died, I have often wondered if he was really there at all, or if his spirit had come to deliver his final words.
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