At a Restaurant the Night my Son Died

by Chanel Brenner

I sat across from him,

shooting his portrait with my phone.

 

His charcoal sweatshirt fadedmy son died AfterTalk Grief support

into the dark booth.

 

He played tic-tac-toe

in the dim light.

 

I should have known

something was wrong,

 

when he scribbled his X’s and O’s

like a toddler—

 

should have known

his brain’s weak vessels

 

were bleeding again.

Should have put down the phone

 

and looked him in the eye.

Should have noticed

 

his half-eaten ice cream

melting in the bowl.

At a Restaurant the Night my Son Died first appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review.

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