Car crash. 

He died. 

Passenger in coma. 

 

Sunday morning. 

The day after his 19th birthday. 

 

I’m sorry. 

He was the goalie. 

His mom, his mom, his mom. 

She has to bury her son. 

 

I know this isn’t making sense. 

No names. No context. 

I know this has nothing to do with me. 

 

My students are in the back row. 

Ripped in half. 

Slumped. 

Hollow stare eyes. 

Roberto was their brother, their roommate, their teammate. 

 

I say I’m sorry. 

I say if I can help I’ll help. 

Drive you to Atlanta. 

 

He hit a tree. 

19 years old. 

 

Then stopped replying to his Snaps. 

 

I’ve been running from grief what seems like my whole life. 

Even though it’s only been eight and a half years since my mom died. 

It feels like longer. 

I only see her in my dreams, and even then, it’s not really seeing. 

 

You don’t see ghosts. 

You sense them in your sleep. 

 

The guys in the back row say they have a team meeting soon. 

Say he was the goalie. 

Say his mom, his mom. 

 

This life is so god damn short it doesn’t make any sense.