Having been in his chair all day,
It wasn't clear
I did not know.
I did not realize.
At nine years old,
Nine that day, January 1,
How could I be blamed?
I went on about life.
I was not grown,
I did not notice,
I knew no better.
In fact, I don't remember hearing...
My mother's frantic voice,
The intermittent sobs,
The paramedics pulling up.
But in the wake,
In the subsequent hours and days and YEARS,
Ten or eleven years,
I've grown. I understand...
Those things now give me chills just to acknowledge.
I still can not remember the commotion, but that's not what matters.
That disaster didn't shake me, you know.
But his absence is the loudest sound there is.
It's rang in my ears for the past decade or so.
It's the loudest sound I've ever heard.