Today's writing

I picture my hand on the knob, turning. Seeing his feet first, wondering stupidly how is that even possible? Then seeing the swinging, swaying.

 

I screamed. Howled. You little fucker. You can’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Rob came, pulled him down, did CPR. Too late. A little, a lot, we will never know. Unlike his time of birth, I have no idea of his time of death. No one told me, or if they did, I didn’t comprehend it.

 

I’d wanted more time. Less pressure. Less stress. Careful there with those wishes, with what you think would make your life better. A pair of swinging feet, a belt connected to a ceiling fan. A flushed yet somehow pale face. Quiet now, quieter than before. Quiet for good. Quiet for always.