I dozed on and off that morning.
No school, but work was later.
The door to the garage opened and closed
In a heavy reverberation, yet
I kept tucked into
My five layers of blanketed bliss.
Our dogs were pattering their paws
Along the caramel wood floor
And my ears honed in
On the sound of muffled voices.
It turned sharp.
My dad crying, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
My mom was screaming, “No.
No. Oh, God. Please no.” I’d only
Heard that kind of wailing
In movies. Thought something
Happened to one of our dogs.
I pushed myself out
Of my bed towards the noise.
Didn’t even bother putting
A bra under my baggy t-shirt.
They were holding each other.
In their room, holding each other.
Bound to the bushy, carpeted floor.
Lights were dim, my mom
Had been sorting laundry.
I kept asking what happened.
I was stabbed with it.
“Your Uncle Tucker died.”
I shut down, held my mom.
It wouldn’t occur to me until later,
When my mom grieved in it:
She was an only child now.
⌊ © Serena Delgado (June, 2018) ⌉
⌊ Photograph by Serena Delgado (June, 2018) ⌉