Instead

I didn't get a 2 a.m phone call
There was no waking up to your mothers screech
Her tears clumping together to make pools in my ears
And a sharpness down my spine
Instead, I slept
At least then
I could still close my eyes and believe you were ok

There was no "I'll be right there"
Instead, the only visiting we did was in my everyday conscientiousness
You told me when the nurse was vacuuming out your stomach
She was taking all the icky things away
Like cutting the fat off a thanksgiving turkey
But why did you come back with hollow bones and unbrushed teeth
And pills inside a birthday goody bag
Like it was some kind of reward

It was not dramatic
Instead, it was a text message.
A picture of a yellow band around your forearm with your name on it
illuminated by florescent lighting
with the words that said "I did it".