On
Tuesday morning,
school starts at nine, not eight.
So on
Tuesday morning,
I can sleep an hour late.
Usually you've left for work by then,
but not today. I wonder why.
Mom says that you've got
a headache and it's bad.
She's called an ambulance,
her face has changed.
I go to see you,
Dad, and you're tangled
in the bed sheets.
and the only thing you're wearing
is white underwear.
The paramedics stand beside
your bed in navy blue.
They are giants in the room.
They are talking to you.
Have you been really stressed
out lately?
Are there things that have upset you?
You nod yes.
Now you're screaming, screaming a headache,
and your eyes roll up and back, you are foaming,
you are thrashing, and I hear your body crack,
and they put you on a stretcher, and mom has
turned as white as your white underwear.
Now a blur of hospital days and weeks,
you are breathing through ma chines.
mom speaks she says my school band has
a concert out of town I meant to play will
I go
she says it's my decision I wonder what to do
music is the thing that connects
me and you
I join the band on the bus down to
Washington,
D .C.
We're on stage and we're playing.
I feel a wave of peace.
I get back home.
I'm at my front door.
I take myself inside.
Mom is sitting at the table.
I sit down too.
She says that you died.
you