He slumped; the gurgling sound Grandma heard from
the kitchen brought the EMTs, there in time to catch
the aftermath, drooling from a mouth frozen square.
It was clear the situation could not be repulsed, and
he was hustled away on a rectangle. With wheels.
That was the day the fuzzy edges hardened. No more
reminiscing about the arcs of sugarcane, no more TV
blaring football. Now, in a home devoid of heavy steps
borne of shrapeneled knees, a home where people
retreat to the kitchen and sip coffee to stave off talk,
my sister and I run circles around these pointed edges.
What was it my mother cooed (to me?) in quiet moments?
"The world is going down, baby. The world is going down."
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