by Adrianna Lamonge
I was marinating chicken when the phone rang,
And I dashed up the stairs to see you, our son in your arms
When I blurted out “You dad is dead.”
I’ve never seen you move so fast,
You were pulling out of the driveway before I could catch my breath.
Grief doesn’t even set in until the last guest has left
And the buffet is picked down to the bone.
I look at you across the room,
A different man then you were last week
And I pray quietly to whoever took him
“Please, give him strength.”
I watched you sift through decades of him
Worn paper in one hand,
Cold beer in the other,
“This dies with me,”
And you flicked a lighter and watched his confessions burn.
He was a quiet man.
And sometimes you are too,
And that’s what scares me.
No one can sleep this week,
The house is full and time does not exist in this realm,
Each day ebbing into the next.
I reached for you last night and all that remained was your sweat on the sheets.
You don’t often make promises you can’t keep,
But I think this time you might need to bend the rules.
I know he loved you and you look like him when he carried you on his shoulders
And our son’s smile rests above your head like a halo,
Like I imagine he is wearing right now.
Adrianna Lamonge is a literary arts educator, poet and theatre artist living in the Rust Belt of NE Ohio. In addition to Jenny Magazine, you can find her most recent work in Barstow & Grand.