What I Remember
(Part One)
What I remember most is
after the call came
(I knew who it would be and
knew the words before they were said),
in the long, small hours before dawn
I was cold.
It wasn’t a coyly poetic cold
like ice crystals etched on a winter window
but a blunt meat locker cold,
frozen to the core,
so-cold-it-hurt cold.
I remember I called my sister
(she knew who it would be and
knew the words before they were said),
in the long, small hours before dawn.
We’ll make plans in the morning,
we said.
I remember waiting through those last hours
before the sky lightened
and it all became real
shivering,
wrapped in blankets
waiting for some visitation,
some message,
some final
ending
But there was only cold.