Sitting next to him
in the cusp
of what would have been
sixteen years of life spent
in each other’s company,
I heave a breath that cuts the room.
Our backs hunch over
sitting in tiny blue chairs
built for small people
as we listen to our progenies
academic achievements.
The teacher looks through
the painful silence between us
and I find myself
counting the puffs of oxygen
coming from the tank neatly
strapped to her back
to distract me from the truth of it all.
At the end, we stare at the pile
of drawings and stories,
the culmination of our combined seeds,
trying to decide what fragments of her
we cannot bear to part with.
As I walk to my car alone,
I look sideways and see him there
in his seat, sun hitting the windshield
and his face is twisted as if crying.
Part of me wants to knock on the window
and simply say, “I’m sorry.”
But I know that would somehow
never be enough,
so I keep walking
with the sound of gravel under my feet.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Words Dance 10/08 (Issue 12)
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