Thursday Morning

MADELINE SHARPLES

When all I heard was silence 
behind the locked bathroom door
that Thursday morning,
when all I saw was darkness 
through the open bedroom door,
when Bob went to investigate,
calling his name, Paul—
pleading with him, Paul, 
open the door, 
when Bob went to the garage 
for a screwdriver to pick the lock,
when he opened the door
and closed it quickly from the inside
while I stood on the stairs, waiting
as Bob found our son in the bathtub,
sitting in a pool of blood,
blue, already cold and stiff,
tongue hanging out of his mouth,
when Bob came out of the bathroom
face red, hands shaking
and told me Paul is dead, 
when all I heard were sirens
and the footsteps of the police 
as they stomped through our house,
all I could do was huddle 
in the corner of the couch,
my legs drawn under me,
my arms folded around me,
as I rocked back and forth,
my hands clamped into tight fists.

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