May 11, 2012 | 9:52 a.m.
i see all kinds of sorrow.

She fell to the floor, dead as the dial tone of last call’s phone. I cried so hard, my nose bled wet red into the sink. They swore she’d be back before bed time, but there was no bed that night. My father broke the news, quiet as a cool moon, drawing out the highest rip tides of our guttural cries. We huddled in the living room and pretended to sleep, beneath the blue light of his tv feet. We woke in a house no more our home, to a small snow she had thrown and kept busy for a year, five years, eight, forever…