one; your mom gets a phone call. she turns to you, whispers, “she’s passed away.” you think about all she’s lived for, all the times you’ve spent with her, all the people that will miss her. your hands shake a little, and you have no comfort for your mother. you bow your head, entangle your hands, stay silent, weep.
two; staring up at your bedroom ceiling. the lights are all off in the house. your brother is asleep across the room, snoring gently. the trees outside cast solemn shadows against your room’s walls. in the space where there is no sound, you feel a wet patch on your pillow. you wake no one. by morning, your pillow looks the same as always.
three; the kind of tears that won’t stop. the kind of crying where you look up at your father, and the hot tears fall fast down your cheeks. your mouth is clamped shut; you dare not speak to him. every time you open your mouth, strain to speak, the syllables barely make it past your lips, and you break down – your whole face starts to shake, the world goes blurry, and high-pitched half-screams rattle in your ribcage and shoot out of your system. the kind of crying where you think, “nothing will ever be the same again”. the kind of crying where you think, “i’ll never see him in the same light again”. the kind of crying you wish you could forget.