Heavy days

I remember it only in snatches,

in images that I can bring to mind
like screenshots from a movie -- rewind and wallow.

They were heavy days,
spent mostly at the computer, following closely
how many had been shot -- and where --
until the shooting was in our neighbourhood,
and we heard of three killed.

I remember looking at my husband, our eyes connecting with the same thought.
I remember us checking for recent Facebook activity
just to know he was still alive.
We found nothing.

And those three words spoken on the phone,
so simple but so shattering.

It was the last two weeks of summer vacation,
but the days crawled by,
and whenever I lay down to sleep I thought of him
and of those left behind.

Now that new-school-year smell, the waxed floors
felt like betrayal
like the day my aunt died
and I’d baked butter cookies.

All who met me that first day expressed their condolences
-- kind words and concerned faces --
and then turned to others to discuss their vacations,
laughter replacing concern.

But I was not angry.
They could only feel the weakest tremors in the outermost circle of our affliction;
they could not be at the epicentre.
Even I was not at that centre, shaken as I was.
That place was for my sister, and his parents.

Five months later, I was giving condolences to another.
My eyes followed the box, decorated with a simple green cloth, and the black car
with doors open, awaiting the cargo.
My turn was over; another’s had begun.
And so we continue to swap condolences, to take our turn.
And life continues; the sun rises and sets;
until my own laughter is no longer a betrayal, but a sign of healing.

(April 2015)