Under the driver’s seat, down with fuzz, frizzled napkins from McDonald’s, paperclips, a dime and two darkened pennies, lies the reason I couldn’t console you on the death of your son. At birth, my son’s heart rate dropped with every contraction. The nurse turned off the sound so we wouldn’t have to hear the slowing beep— that counting between flash and thunder—with ever so much at stake. Me on my right side, beep-beep, beep, but on my back or left side the machinery would beep much slower. When more than one doctor runs through the door at one time, beep you know things will not end well. But that’s not this story. Not my story. It’s not your story, either. You had no warning. My son survived his birth, cord thrice wrapped around his neck; he survived toddlerhood, grade school, and high school (just). And here, our stories converge—one suicide completed and one not. Forgive me. I didn’t know how to comfort you.
Michele Parker Randall is the author of Museum of Everyday Life (Kelsay Books 2015) and A Future Unmappable, chapbook (Finishing Line Press 2021). Her poetry can be found in Nimrod International Journal, Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere.
