Someday

I should be comforted by this. But there is nothing that feels like comfort to be experienced. There’s only pain and guilt and sadness and monumental remorse.

I used to think I was good at this.

I am not good at this.

I am dangerous to anyone I’m in.

Moses’s mother studies his face. The next time the doctor comes in, she asks her if it’s okay for me to sleep.

“There’s no sign of a concussion,” the doctor says. “Let’s just finish here, then you can take him home and he can sleep.”

So at least I protected my head.

No, not my head.

Moses’s head.

They give me painkillers. I take them. As soon as I get into bed and my mother turns out the lights, I crash.

I wake up in fits and starts over the next few hours. Either my father or mother is watching over me. My sister has expressed sympathy but has kept her distance.

I don’t have the energy to say anything, or even the energy to figure out if there is anything I could possibly say. Sleep pulls me under soon enough.

This body is done with me for today.

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