The day after the tragedy,

I sat on my bed, waiting for sunrise.

I climbed off my bed and slipped on my slippers.

I rinsed the dishes and did the laundry.

I fried some eggs and sprinkled some salt on them.

I slotted the bread in the toaster and waited for it to become toast.

I washed an orange and squeezed it into a juice glass.

I washed the pan, I washed the dishes, I cleaned the stove.

Just like the day I left.

The morning was splendid.

The day after the tragedy,

I sat in the park, waiting for someone to sit beside me.

I watched a jogger run past me, he didn’t even glance my way.

I watched a dog walker stride past me, the dog didn’t even bark at me.

I watched a toddler waddle past me, the child pointed at the apple tree behind me.

I really enjoyed sitting in the park.

Just like the day I left.

The day after the tragedy,

I settled on the couch, waiting for my family to utter a word.

My mom, who was clutching one of my watches, scrubbed it over and over until she couldn’t.

The watch was spotless, it was sparkling, but it was frozen at the time I left.

My dad, who was holding a note I wrote, read it over and over until he couldn’t.

The note was mundane, it was crumpled, but the ink was still as vivid as the day I left.

My brother, who was holding a pen of mine, clicked it over and over until he couldn’t.

The pen wasn’t very expensive, it was flawed, but the ink flowed as smoothly as the day I left.

The room was silent, I could hear a pin drop.

I liked sitting on the couch.

Just like the day I left.

The day after the tragedy.

I tried talking to the body in the morgue.

I smiled at him.

I talked about the sunrise, I talked about breakfast.

I talked about the jogger, I talked about the dog walker.

I talked about the couch, I talked about his parents.

The day after the tragedy.

I sat next to my coffin.

It was drizzling, everyone held an umbrella.

I perched on my tombstone, waiting for them to leave, waiting for the rain to end.

I regretted what I had done, I tried to reenter the body.

But all there was,

Dead silence.

 

Inspiration from the poem——The Morning After I Killed Myself by Meggie Royer