he's asleep on the couch in the basement

He told me he was leaving.

It is 10:30 am on a Saturday,

yes, it is 2007, the year my sister left
the month of October

which in Minnesota means that it is already winter

I go downstairs to watch television

but for some reason my dad is asleep on the couch

I walk back up the stairs and stare at my mother

so she asks me what’s wrong but I do not answer

because my dad is not where he is supposed to be

I climb another set of stairs and crawl back into

my sister’s green and white polka-dotted sheets

I stare at the peeling walls 

I hear a knock at the door

my mom walks in still wearing her pajamas

I hear what she is saying but mostly I am looking

at the paintings on the walls and the books on the bookshelves

I wonder why I have never read Pride and Prejudice 

why my 18-year-old sister has a children’s Bible in her room

I hope that the cross that hangs above the doorway 

will hold up my mother, or that my sister were here

she always knows what to say to my mom.

I wish that I could melt into Van Gogh’s stars 

the way they have always seemed to melt into the sky

I want to swim out of this yellow-gray room 

swim into the night where I will sleep in my own bed

and my dad will sleep in the same bed as my mother

but they pull in the relief pitcher for the 7th inning

my dad makes me believe that even though

the our team is losing the game

maybe we can make a last-minute comeback

my father makes a little joke

but then I see my mother’s face

I know it’s over

my blood runs a little faster now and I walk

from my car, through the garage, I go inside

I worry I will see my mother making dinner alone

I cannot hold her up by myself, daddy