It always has.
I shouldn’t have taken that extra pill this morning.
My head is too soft at the edges.
Fuzzy.
Everything slightly muffled—slow motion.
I stand outside the office door and I don’t open it.
Just for a second.
Just one more second of not knowing.
• • •
My dad is there.
I have never seen my dad cry like that.
Not once.
In eighteen years.
He is the man who makes bad jokes at dinner and misses every piece of popcorn he throws at his own mouth and acts like he didn’t.
He is solid and steady and constant.
He is not this broken thing I see.
It’s not him.
• • •
The ringing starts.
His voice comes through it in pieces.
My mom. Pneumonia. Worse than they thought.
She was feeling better this morning.
She told me at breakfast.
She was standing at the counter in her pastel yellow cardigan and she said I think I’m turning a corner, bug, and I grabbed a granola bar and said good and left for school.
I said good.
That was the last thing I said to her.
Good.
And I wasn’t even there, not really.
• • •
The floor opens up.
