LLADRÓ

I’m twelve
and you’re in
the living room
gasping.

I thought the
coffee pot
was percolating
but it was just your
last breath
death rattle
reverberating.

Your damage
wasn’t deleted
by the coroner’s
gurney leaving.

It bubbles up
in flashes
rapid fire
and
seething.

Dripping from
your body bag
retreating.

Echoing down
every hall
leading
toward a
semblance of
healing.

The finality
of your
lungs
evacuating.

Eroding
into the
beginning
of my digging.

Twenty-seven
years later
still
excavating.

Memory
a delicate
figurine.

Tumbling
into nothing.