You Are Not Here

and then take a right turn.

Two more blocks

and I’ll be with Brian.

For the first time

in a long time,

I know he’ll be there

waiting for me.

I sit down on the grass next to him.

He has flowers,

but I know they’re not for me.

I wonder who gave them to him,

but I don’t ask.

I tell Brian about my day.

I say, “I saw your dad

at the supermarket.

I didn’t talk to him—

it’s not like he knows who I am,

and even if he did,

I wouldn’t know what to say.

I watched him

take things off the shelves,

look them over,

and then put them back.

There was almost nothing

in his cart.

I wonder if he’s always been like that,

or just lately.”

I say, “I miss you.”

I ask if he’s missed me too,

then wait for his answer.

If that squirrel runs up that tree,

then his answer is yes.

If it stays on the grass,

his answer is no.

The squirrel doesn’t move,

and my breath catches in my throat.

After a moment,

it zips up the tree.

I smile and lie down

next to Brian.

I wish he could hold me

like he used to,

but he doesn’t.

The warm sun makes me drowsy

and I fall asleep on my side

next to Brian.

When I wake up, grass is imprinted

on my arm and leg.

I brush myself off,

but Brian doesn’t move.

I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I reach out to touch him,

and my fingers make contact

with words:

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

I need this night

to last forever.

I need it to go on

because once I fall asleep,

it will be tomorrow.

It will be the day

of Brian’s funeral.

And I can’t do that.

I can’t see that.

I can’t feel that.

My eyes are burning.

They want to seal shut.

They want a break from crying.

My body is sore from tensing,

and it wants release.

It wants the softness of sleep,

but I cannot give it that.

I cannot

let that happen.

I cannot

go from today to tomorrow.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

If I do not sleep,

it will not come.

I repeat these nine words

like a mantra.

I try to hold on to them

like worry beads,

like a rosary,

but instead of keeping me focused

they are lulling

me to sleep.

If I do not

sleep it will

not come if I

do not sleep

it will not

come if I do

not sleep it

will not come if

I do not

sleep

it

will

not

come.