When I wake up, it’s Aunt Bee
who is sleeping in a chair next to me.
Charlie stands by the window.
I slide out of my chair, careful
not to disturb Aunt Bee, and
walk over to Charlie. She’s staring
out at the sidewalk, and it doesn’t
take long to see why.
All over the gray stone
are the flowers Aunt Bee brought.
I don’t know how they got there.
She threw them out, Charlie says.
My heart sounds loud
in my ears. It must be
worse than I thought.
He’s not dead, Charlie says,
and for a minute I think she might be
talking about my daddy, except I
saw the crumpled car and I heard the shots
and I felt the cold that every boy must feel
when their daddy leaves them.
She turns to me, her eyes like
the deep end of an ocean.
He’s just not exactly alive, either.
I don’t know what this means,
not being exactly alive. So, I ask,
Will he die, then?
Charlie turns back toward the window,
toward all those flowers that
look like death, now that I know.
I don’t want to see them pointing
the way inside this place
where people come to die.