little sister

It was a Saturday morning in March when my bedroom door flew open. I awoke instantly to see my dad walk across the room toward me. I thought there was a fire.

"Luke. You have to get up. I think we lost your mom last night."

I remember walking into the house the night before. I walked up the stairs and into the back porch. I opened the door to the kitchen and she was lying on the floor. There was a pillow under her head, so I knew that everything was OK. I listened for her breathing. I heard her breathing. I fell asleep to The Simpsons.

My eyes were dry until the police came. They started asking me questions.

"When did you get home last night?"

"Did you see your mom?"

"Did she seem OK?"

I froze. A door opened behind my eyes, and the tears began falling. Not like rain. Like when a gutter empties onto the street during a storm. Not like rain.

Peter came downstairs later than the rest of us. He seemed confused. He cried like rain. I had never seen him cry before.

Kaylie stood stone-faced, eyes straight ahead. She didn't say a word. She didn't shed a tear.

It would be weeks before I heard the screams coming from her bedroom. Mommy! Mommy! Where are you?

I sat outside her door, head in my hands, knowing that I couldn't enter. No one could enter. I just wanted to hold her. I knew, though, that she was waiting for only one person to come hold her.

I thought there was a fire.