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Here I am Mike,
fresh from my shower,
thinking of you.
The melody of Phantom
ghosts through the misty room.
Yellow towel still wrapped around my hair,
clad in a red top and blue jeans.
I think of you, that day.
I was soaked to the bone,
and I opened the email.
It read, 'If you are Jennifer Warren
call us. You have our number.
Signed, Michael's Parents
Cathy and Walter Atchley'
I don't recall my race to the phone,
slick marble no hindrance to me -
thousands of images flashed through my mind,
all in the ten feet of the hall.
Your number dialed itself,
independent of my numb fingers.
I knew something happened,
but seconds could not prepare me.
"Hello, Mrs. Atchley?
This is Jennifer Warren,
you sent me an email, is Mike okay?"
"I'm sorry to tell you, Jennifer,
Michael died a week ago."
She sounded so calm,
her voice dead.
I croaked, all I could do, "How?"
How - someone, not yet twenty,
not yet a sophomore in college,
a brilliant, vibrant you die?
Sudden. heart. failure.
I could not talk,
just cried and squeaked
"I have to go" and hung up.
That was Monday, May 24th.
© 1997 kithan@mindspring.com
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