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Home.
December 9, 2015
My head is pounding,
the cinder blocks of my brain breaking
on the cement of my skull.
My hands are trembling.
His last words are a constant
echo in my head,
"I'll be home at 8, dear."
But that was months ago.
"I'll be home, "I'll be home," you liar.
Now I know
a gunshot wound to the chest
is not something you can
patch over with a Band-Aid.
The picket fence
and wooden floors
are not home without you.
© Nicole B., Newcastle, WA
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Sharon Olds inpired me to write this piece. I co-wrote this with my friend Abby Nakai.