The chill of the glass on my hand grounds me. I gaze, empty-eyed, out at the sun-dappled grass of my well-manicured lawn. It should be raining or overcast, but the sun shines, bright and cruel.
Today would have been his birthday. There should have been laughter and presents and cake. The house never felt so empty.
I hear rapid breathing. I catch sight of a reflection in the window. My eldest child stands in the doorway, panting. His eyes ask the question, but the words die on his tongue. I tell him the truth; I cannot protect him from it.
His eyes scream denial; his face, sorrow; his body, rage. I turn to him, to comfort him. He shies away from my touch. He takes a step back, searches my face for an explanation or lie. There is none. He runs. I stay, watching, waiting, praying, but, for what, I don't know.
The day passes with cheerful agony. The moon rises in the dusky sky. I begin to feel caged in the house. I leave.
I push the car fast, faster than it has ever gone. I don't get pulled over. I never do.
My old friend stands on the rooftop. He looks out to the night sky. I join him.
He seems concerned. He asks me where I've been. I don't flinch. I don't answer immediately. He almost says more. I cut him off. My voice doesn't shake, doesn't falter.
"There's been a death in the family."