THE NEWS IS MOSTLY TRUTH

Wendy and Barb sit on either side of me like the sibylline lions, Patience and Fortitude. I’m looking toward the corner of Morris and South Bay, listening for the rumble of a school bus, but all I hear is my heart pounding. I imagine Dylan’s morning: he’s humming a new tune; made a new friend; drawn a picture of his family. 

Sue parks at the curb. I’ve forgotten the sitter was coming, that I have an afternoon of feeding tubes and language games. Startled, I turn to face her. Sue sees me the way you see tragedy, no matter how dark the shades are. 

“Oh no Debbie, please don’t say it.” 

A simple statement, don’t say it. A window slamming shut on your life.
I see her. She is real. This is real. Monday, David was to stay home. Sue was not coming to the doorstep, now she is. 

I want to go back inside, savor my coffee and flip the open news page. It’s the wrong day and I know everything now. I want the phones silenced before noises form words that are all wrong. I want to push the green call button, sob to Dave about Dylan’s first day of school, while he pauses on the concourse.

The four of us sit on the stoop in silence, and I wonder if I can forestall a terrible thing from happening, by simply remaining still. 

A yellow bus pauses. 

I move alone to the corner to embrace the innocence, and walk our four-year-old into his new world. 
The driver whispers, “I hope you don’t know anyone in the buildings. It’s terrible.  

“Mommy, I had a great first day of school. Dasani is my best friend!”

The blue sky is now veiled in a milky haze, the breeze has become a wind, and the air is silt, and sea, and ash. 

“What did you do today?”
“We had circle time, I got my name on my cubby, and we made pictures. I had fun in school today.”
“That’s very good Dylan.”

© 2025 Deborah Garcia, all rights reserved