Posted: Jun 28, 08 9:14am

Paul died long before his brother. And he could remember the day it happened. The obituary would have read: “Artist dies after tragic life. Surviving are his brothers, James and Phillip Markel, sisters Laura Helveston and Mirna McCoy and mother, Mrs. Alice Markel.” It would appear in plain print somewhere in the middle of the obituary column with no picture. Of course, they would likely misspell his name; put the “l” before the “e.” Everybody did that. Certainly the unimaginative obituary would have nothing to say about his art awards and his gallery appearances.

And they wouldn’t even know to mention her. Of course, Paul would have met her after he died. “At long last,” he used to say to himself. “Finally, I have found the woman of my dreams!” She was the world to him. She was the light and the sweetness in the scent of the roses. And they were happy together, as happy as he could be. But that was after he died and before now. Before the nuclear disaster that once was their blossoming relationship.

But, he couldn’t blame himself. It was genetic.