It’s hard to know
what will break us
and what will glue us whole.
That tiny patch of wet,
insignificant and unnoticed
and misjudged,
broke your car and you
and all those who love.
Tray drove the way
to your sleeping place,
and we wait and wait
and wait beneath those
too-bright lights in those
too-cold chairs by those
too-unknown people,
who watch and
stare and gape.
Your mother walks in,
eyes red and swollen,
and then your dad behind her,
face spotted and splotched.
They hold me while they weep,
and Tray stands aside,
his eyes on the ceiling,
where tiles stretch
their straight lines
from one end of the
room to another.
Men in white appear suddenly,
saying all those words
I don’t understand except
for the two that mean
everything and nothing
at the same time.
Still breathing.
They let us in to see what’s left,
and I stare at you, small and pale
and wrapped in bindings.
I sit and wait
and watch and wait
and grip and wait.
Tray leaves to find
everyone food,
and still I wait.
Your mother’s eyes
drop closed
and still I wait.
The blood on my shirt
turns black
and still I wait.
Your mother leans close
after a time, smelling
of sweat and tears
and traces of citrus.
It’s been days. Weeks.
I don’t know.
He was always a
late sleeper, she says.
He preferred his dreams
to what the world offered.
She smiles, her lips
thinning like tightropes,
and her eyes, the ones
she gave you, blink sad.
He’s dreaming now.
She looks at the broken you,
then down at her hands.
Maybe we should
leave him to dream.
I shake my head,
back and forth,
back and forth,
a thousand times.
No, I say. No. No.
I will not leave
my beloved.
Do you hear me?
I will not leave you,
my beloved.
I am waiting
for our begin.
This is an excerpt from The Lovely After. Visit my Reader Library page, where you can get it and a couple of volumes for free.
