A Phonecall

Have you ever been there
when your friend gets a call, but you weren't meant to be next to them
when they answered?
When the news on the other line
wets their eyes
droops their shoulders
turns your light conversation about colors and creativity
(from before the ring, the buzz)
into a mockery of real life.
The real life with it's
 shades of heartbreak
from the update that hits them like a jump-shot poorly thrown
knocking the wind out of 'em
them, the guard
just there defending their game.
But life's not a game,
and it isn't fair,
and where are the refs anyway?
Why is it that foul after foul
hits upside the head
when they've played fair all this time
this round and all those before it?

I remember,
I remember
when she got that call
Her left hand pressed tight against her lips and her right clutching the receiver, her slender fingers like ice bones now
tight, tight, holding on.
Her hands, just after they were just barely, just before, just now curling my hair and placing a red bow on top.
I remember the diamonds spilling from her eyelid rims
I remember the glow of the lights, the tree, the crimson-wrapped boxes glaring at us from down the hall.
I remember seeing her--strong, strong, strong forever
but now, like a willowy branch clinging to a cliffside
hurting for the people
she'd lost.
The call that turned the world from grins to gray
from gold to grim
from silly to sobs.

And I remember the next day,
when she got up at the same time,
and curled my hair the same
and smiled at me the same
but hugged me tighter than she had before.
Because for a child, you have to keep their world going
even when yours
has teetered
 or toppled
and you hold on to the good
and all that's precious still
because you have to love who's still here
and not think too much now
even though it panics you for wondering
each time the phone rings.