At first he was thinking how the walls would be clean, the furniture in their places, her body nowhere on the floor had he, last night, held her back. Had he, last night, ran after her. Had he, last night at the very least, taken her home.
They told him she died hours after he put down the phone, hours after she sputtered to him, “I’m sorry, I—I…” Hours after he said, “Look, I don’t know anymore. We’ll see tomorrow.”
Did she suffer, he asked, and they told him drowning in your own blood was no easy way to go, and he thought, heartbreak isn’t easy for those who remain.
Katrina Del Rosario
