People hold still after a death. Inside of every minute, little
claymores hide, waiting to detonate.
When I see a train, or hear a train horn from across the town.
When I even imagine a train, the rhythmic clatter as it goes by, my
breath stops. I think of him stepping in
front of one.
When an actor pretends to be (or is) high. When they’re accurate,
it’s harrowing and tragic. When they’re lampooning,
it’s infuriating. Same with mental
illness. And suicide.
Whenever a character in a show is in AA and talks recovery, or when a
parent gets a death notification from the police, or when someone sees a loved
one in the morgue or at the funeral.
When someone jokes about being delusional, or quotes Han Solo from
“Return of the Jedi.”
When I hear music sung. When I sing. I hear the echo of his
magnificent voice, and sob.
When I see a 20-year old boy. When
a missionary comes home. Or leaves.
When the kids do a chore without complaining, because holy cow, did he
complain a lot.
When we have granola (which he loved), tomato soup (hated), or cheese
(loved).
When we laugh.
When another bill collector calls, so I write down their number to fax his
death certificate.
When it is quiet.
When I hear the theme music to the original Mario Brothers. Remember when
Max made that his ring tone? In High School, he’d forget his cell phone, I’d
call it just to make it ring, and chuckle.
When we see a movie, or quote trivia, or tell a joke, or recycle that
last basket of his old clothes that no one will ever wear again by taking it to
Goodwill, and I leave it in my trunk so I can take it back inside to look at
again, smell it again just one more time, just once.
Grenades of ache exploding in my heart.
