A glass of vodka lay shattered on the white linoleum floor.
The phone swung back and forth.
My sister and I were in our pajamas watching cartoons,
the volume so loud it drowned out life.
The loud knocking on the door, barely noticed,
brought the police and questions.
My silence was ignored when my baby sister
showed them the gun on the dresser.
When mama woke from her haze latter that summer
she found god.

Years latter the late night phone call
and the deep sobs creeped in to my room.
Uncle Allen had found the tailpipe of his black Trans-Am,
not god like mama.
Looking at grandpa while dad read from the bible in the cemetery,
Asking "how can the rosary work when he is already dead?"
The ringing in my ears form his swift backhand
still haunts me to this day.

The day my son was born his heart was beating slowly.
The nurse ran out looking for the doctor.
My wife and I were scared
we hoped he would find god if something happened.
On the ride home the silence between my mama and me
was broken by the news of Kurt Kobain suicide.
Mama turned white and asked who he was
"Just another poor soul, mama."
That day my boy found us
not god.

03/12/2003

Posted on 03/13/2003
Copyright © 2024 Derek Gregory