The Hole

My mother was the one who told me he was dead. I ran into the bathroom and bolted the door. There was a small window in there with two round jail-house bars. I held on to them hard. I was only ten. I let the tears roll down to the sides of my mouth, and licked them to harden my insides. I wanted to cry gushingly, but I couldn’t. He had gone too fast from our world of make-believe. It has taken me all of thirty years to learn to mourn properly.