Goodbye

It's been forty days since my half-brother lost his dad. Since my mom lost the love of her life. Since I lost someone I've known for as long as I could remember. He had died in our house, in the spare room. My mom had left him for five minutes, maybe even less. When she returned and called him to supper, he was gone. All that was left was a crumpled man on his knees, forehead to the ground. The bruise would be prominent days later, despite the makeup. Had his knees buckled beneath him? They must have -- he was, after all, just inches from the bed. He didn't even make it that far. His eyes were open, my mother told me. I wonder what he saw. Was there pain? Did he try to call out? Or had pain side-swiped him from behind and dragged him for several blocks to Death's door? I wonder about these things. Sometimes I would walk into the spare room, thinking I'd feel something, a presence, a prickling. Nothing. What I do feel is my mother's pain. And I see her tears on his pillow -- now hers -- that she still hasn't put away. My mother, twice widowed now, yet still new to the word goodbye.