4.
now
Not a single other car on the road.
No one out with their dog
walking across the yard with a plate of cookies for their neighbor
pushing a lawnmower into the garage
talking at the mailbox
the curb
the little park at the end of the road.
No kids playing in the yard
or runners on the street
or teenagers walking together in knots on the sidewalks.
Not a soul along the wide grassy areas by the college dorms.
5.
now
I drive, slowly, down the street.
There is no screen-blue light seeping through windows. Nobody playing in their yards. No snick-hiss of backyard sprinklers, no smell of burgers grilled for dinner in the air.
I get out of the car and go up the sidewalk to my house.
My heart tick-tocks with hope.
Someone has to be there.
They can’t all
be gone.
6.
now
The dishes sit on the table, clean. The chairs are tucked in nice and neat.
My brother, Jack, would never leave his that way. He’s always on his way to a baseball game or a night out with friends or a morning practice and so his chairs are left askew, his sentences are half-finished, his life isin medias resall the time.
“Hey?” I call out. “Mom? Dad? Jack?”
I check all the rooms, the closets, under all the beds, in the backyard, the side yard, the front yard.
It’s like they haven’t been here for a long time.
But they were just here.
