Day 630

What you miss
is the life you had.  You woke,
went to class, stopped
at a café with friends.
You came home.  You ate,
studied, turned off the light.
Your grandfather sat in the front room,
reading.  Your mother
brought him tea in a porcelain cup
painted with roses.  Your father
drew blueprints for houses
he was going to design.  Your brothers
squabbled; you asked them
to be quiet, you were trying to sleep.
What you miss now is the sound
of their squabbling, the sound
of your grandfather calling
for more tea, your parents
saying goodnight.  Do your brothers
argue with each other
in their graves, disagree
about which soccer team
should win the championship?
Do their faces that were red with blood
the last time you saw them
grow red with anger
as they continue their argument?