They drew back the drapes, let us see his face.

It looked as if he were sleeping, except for the stains

that covered his shirt; my first impulse

was to tell him to take it off, promise I’d

wash it and bleach it next time

he brought his laundry home.

 

The woman at the next window put her cheek

against the cold glass, as if it were a nursery

and she was seeing her newborn for the first time.

I caught her eye and we both took a breath,

caught in the veil between life and death,

understanding the need to be numb

but wanting to be alive with anger and grief.

 

The counselor said that would all come later,

after the reality sank in that our children

were never coming home for Summer vacation,

they were not going to call, asking for money

or advice for the love-sick or anything at all.

 

We chose clothing for the viewing;

it was hard to know if he’d wanted to be

buried in suit and tie or in his blue jeans.

It had never seemed necessary to ask him.

We settled for one of his Hokie sweatshirts,

the one with his name engraved

across the pocket -

 

the pocket that lies right over his still heart

(and why can't I breathe when I think of that?)

 

I sleep with his baby picture under my pillow

and though I think my husband knows,

he says nothing, just moves to touch me

all night long, as if some madness will

overtake us in the dark.

 

I am not afraid of anything anymore,

not since madness overtook us

in the bright white light of day.

 

It didn’t even try to hide.