Tina Francis
It’s 10:54 p.m.
The house, wrapped in stillness,
feels earned.
I think back on the day—
me, under blankets, writing.
Him, scurrying downstairs
for Saturday cartoons.
Words stumble out, sluggish and slow,
just beyond grasp,
maddeningly close,
almost,
but slipping away.
Like reaching for a jacket in the back seat while driving.
Then—a crash.
A quick survey—
A glass, a spill,
ice cubes skittered across the floor.
He was fine.
Only ice,
only water,
only the floor.
He was fine.
I scold.
I clean.
He was fine.
He was fine.
He was fine.
Midday, sister calls.
She chuckles,
“Aunty must be studying.”
She knows me well—
Hair wild, pajamas ratty, unkempt.
The cousins hijack our conversation.
He walks away with my phone.
Strange—how my child and hers are friends now.
Later, a walk.
He chatters about a Netflix show.
Out of nowhere,
he takes my hand.
It catches me off guard.
He’s ten now—
boy and baby.
His touch anchors me.
Around us, people walk the other way,
heading to the big game,
draped in Halloween colors.
A holy Camino
to the stadium.
Without warning—The Sound,
so loud, so close,
vibrations rattle my chest.
Above, a B1 bomber flies,
a spectacle for the game.
My thoughts careen to Gaza, Beirut
as I open an Amazon package—
a meat grinder.
Homes and lives crumble
under sounds
much worse.
A meat grinder.
Finally,
an instrument
to grind meat.
The absurdity of it all.
Small things arrive
while big things break.
