You break the habit and pick up an unknown number.
Mr. Darion Smith?
Yes.
Owner of Porsche Cayene, two thousand eleven. Black?
Who is this?
Officer Clive, it is likely that your wife has been in an accident, we are investigating. Are you married to Ester Smith, born in nineteen eighty-two?
Yes.
And you have two children a two year old and a five?
Yes, are they ok? Is it serious?
Are you at home now?
Yes.
Officer Jones is on the way. We need your assistance in identifying the bodies.
The room loses its walls, its boundaries, the world becomes too big. Then it warps into your chest, stings the heart, and its vast again, like an ocean with a perfectly round and peaceful horizon. Silence.
You see a couch. Blue microfiber, three sections, soft. You move towards it to sit down but don’t make it all the way. You sit on the floor.
Fingers feel the cool hardwood. It is well polished and smooth. Your ring catches a small dent in the board. A dropped toy probably.
The world warps again; the heart falters and shares a portion of the pressure with the mind. Silence.
You stand and walk towards the water dispenser in the kitchen. Hardwood ends and bare feet feel the cold tile, crumbs stick to the soles. You rub one foot against the other.
The doorbell rings. Then rings once more followed by a few loud knocks. A uniformed man looks in through the wide window.
You pick up a plastic children’s cup, and fill it with cold water. You sit down, head leaning against the wooden cabinet, set the cup beside.
How can it be that someone is standing outside and is waiting for you to leave the house and drive somewhere for the purpose of identifying the bodies of your wife, your daughter, and your son.
You drink. Slowly. Then some more.
The horizon slowly comes back to its place, to where it belongs. Light gray walls appear first in your mind, then in reality; multitude of small clouds come down from the sky and get trapped on the walls forming a texture; the ceiling takes its usual color.
You stand up and walk towards the door, fingers glide on the wall, the frame of the door, dining room chair, the wall again. Your fingers feel a plastic light switch. But the hand moves on, you don’t turn the switch off, because the sun is out. It will be a while still.