The Tiny Chair

Jane and I sit on tiny chairs in the church nursery.

She is sobbing.

In my mind, I plead with her. Ask me to stop.

I know she’s already gone, and has been, for months.

Why is she so distraught? She can undo this.

But she doesn’t.

I watch her cry, knowing she’s already grieving us.

That night she calls and I comfort her. A month passes and she calls again — she’s having nightmares. Then again the next month.

On the third month I wait for her call. It never comes.

In the nursery, I sit in that tiny chair long after we part.

I sit — until the universe unravels.