That morning
nothing seemed unusual.
You had your tortillas and eggs
for breakfast,
I had my cereal.
We talked about different things:
the kids’ soccer scores,
what bills need paying,
your favorite tv chair
that needs covering,
an old bicycle
that needs repair,
the tree in the yard that needs pruning,
who would take the kids where,
abuelitas who need reassuring
and loving care.
When you got ready to leave
for Home Depot,
we hugged, and laughed a little.
I looked into your smiling brown eyes,
mussed your dark hair,
called you “mi amor,”
but I didn’t tell you how much I love you,
and how I am so grateful
for the canyon-deep bond we share.
How could I know,
after everything
we have been through together
to make it here alive,
mountains, deserts, rivers,
and fear, always fear─
this would be the last time
I would hear
your voice sweet as dulce de leche
telling me
“goodbye”
on that morning you were disappeared.