Abraham Passed Away I

Your brother,
a man I never knew.

I say three words
and your fists pounds your thighs
while your face crumples
and your head drops.
Regret wells up seeping as you cry out,
"We were going to see him on Sunday!"

Abraham passed away.

I know nothing more.
Didn't even know we were planning a trip.

I touch your arm as you rise to speak to a woman you'd rather not,
setting aside your disdain
for your sorrow.

I follow and stand silently, hand on your shoulder.
You murmur nonsense responses
as I listen to a vague and tinny voice.

You are trying not to cry yet.

We never cry unless we're alone.

Sometimes not even then.

I come back as you hang up.
Once again you murmur that we were going to see him on Sunday,
and it hurts so much
you have to cry
and I have to hold you
only for less than a minute though.

And then you're standing up,
I instinctively back out of your space,
and you go into the bathroom to wash up.

My mom waits in the kitchen.
She lets me wipe my own tears and asks if you're okay.
I shake my head no and swallow the last of my drink.
She gets up indecisively.
She might be your daughter, but I know you better.

I tell her you're washing up and she asks me to take the Thanksgiving leftovers to the car.
I hear you starting to talk to her as I close the door.