I imagine myself walking through the charred, smoking remains of a home, sifting through the blackened bits of wood, fabric and broken glass. The lingering heat and haze causes me to squint, but I somehow keep myself from stumbling over the shapes of two small bodies which suddenly materialize out of the sooty, heat-warped air. As I kneel on the burnt floor, I am consciously aware of a part of myself that is usually still – an inner shield forged by the paternal instinct to protect the innocent. That part of me cracks open.
This is the legacy of Josh …