I go with Carol to pick up his “things.”
Four days later and they’re still soaking wet.
Soaked – everything, even his wallet.
Carol looks through everything,
her hands shaking.
“He didn’t even eat his Skittles.”
There are wet matches,
and a wad of keys.
His shoes and clothing . . . soaked.
They give us his gun.
It’s all a blur.
We get in the car and go home.
We don’t really talk about it.
I wish now we had.
I wonder what it is like for her . . .
It was terrible for me.
I can’t remember much
except that I want to get out of here
as fast as I can
and not think of what it was like
that night . . .
Or of what it will be like for us
who are left
with only memories.
Carol lays out the contents of his wallet to dry. No one can quite name the feeling – but it impacts us all as we pass by the things that were his. . .