Half-Day 

Gunshots—but I make it out, walking. Running draws attention. Still I stumble, kicking off Crocs. Underfoot, the school field’s dew-wet. 

Then I pump my arms. I’m flying.

You’re riding in my Fjallraven, a parting gift before dying too young. As a ghost, you’re weightless. You come everywhere with me.

Flashing back: kickball here; the asthmatic kid picked last; your beautiful face set Stoic as you teach me, you tell me, Life’s not fair.

Today’s story: semi-automatics in the hallway. You’re pushing shivers through me as I forge a blind tangent to safety. Lungs aflame.

Which way, Mom? Mom, tell me.