the lines

i weep like my mother,
often and with much tremor.
but like my father, i grieve,
veiled in my pride,
in secret and solitude;
and like my brother,
my feelings lay wrapped
in the notes i sing,
packaged
in the spaces of words
i will never say.

we sing silence,
booming
booming
moving

and still--

like my family,
i am broken but together,
and soon, i, too,
will face
my
ends.

- -

"I'm a ticking time bomb," she whispered. I always knew, but the meaning was different this time. Through the line, I could hear her uncertainty and fear. She breathed heavy; she always does.

She gave too much of her heart away. Too young, too fast. She loved too hard, and all the wrong people. Or maybe just everyone but me, it felt. She gave too much of her heart away. And I knew, we always knew, that at some point it would have to give way. It's just knowing when and where that's the trickiest. I used to always say that I loved surprises. How terrible of me.

On my side of the line, I stared at the ceiling, shapes beginning to take form.

"But I miss you so much," I heard her say against the soundtrack of the Lakers' game.

"I've been home at least 5 times this quarter already," I insisted.

"OK ok. I love you, " she said, and I wondered: why does everyone say the right words too late?

I sighed.

"Yah, man, love you, too." At once, I can tell what she's going to say.

"Heeyyy, I am not "man," I am your mother!"

Of course. And suddenly, I missed her like I was 5 years old again.