IV. Flashes of Memory

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) ⌉


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