that I did not believe in gods and monsters, that we roll silently along a path shaped by forces as predictable as they are powerful, a wet rock in a vast silence.
I told him that there is no time for superstition, that humans and their Internet collect hearsay indifferently as information, that if bicarb and vinegar deserved the reputation that they have, the world would be without detergent, if copper nails killed trees we should be able to find them for sale, that if egg whites responded to everything they are supposed to we might as well regard them as magic.
I told him that I do not have a soul, that the bothersome business of existing will one day end and in that knowledge I find peace.
I did not tell him that I toss spilt salt over my shoulder (right over left, always).
I did not tell him that as I locked up every night I would say thankyou and goodnight to the ladies Constance and Leila and little Ethel Maude — although it had been fifty years since they had set foot in the house — always.
I did not tell him that I had stood, bare chested in the cold, levelled my eyes at the full moon and Mars, smouldering together in the sky, and told them — as a threat or invocation to witness, I do not know — that I would let no harm come to him, that he was in my care, and that I was his.
Always.