Phone Call

It’s 4 am.
My phone is ringing.

My body freezes.
My mind races.

Who’s dead?
I run the list of those I love, without descrimination.

The distress.
The scramble for the airport.

Hypothetical planes are booked.
We can’t take the dog at such short notice.

How long have they been trying to reach me?

I am guilt ridden for leaving my phone on silent in the living room.

Every devastating scenario has flashed through my brain, including the option to not answer and delay the agony, in the time it takes to pull back my bed covers.

It’s a fucking robo call.

Back in bed my mind reruns that day and all those calls racing to tell the world that Luke was dead, before facebook did.
The Myriad calls.
The redials.
Answer! Answer!
The imaginings.
The ruined days.
The ruined lives.
The disbelief.
The screams “NO! NO!”
Repeat, Repeat, Repeat… as I drift into sleep.

This is how it is.
This is trauma.