Afterwards

There are black-and-white signs in the street so that we can know who is missing now.

Hands reach down and pull the newcomers up to the sky where they hover while we say their names a few more times.

Wife name, mother name, sister name, brother name. There is clanging and commotion. So many again.

All at once. The matriarchs wipe their hands on their aprons and go to greet them. The children

peek out to see if their parents have arrived. Or maybe not. What do we know?

We listen to sad songs and thank the merciful one that we are still here to do the listening.

We thank him for the sound of the front door closing, the birds quarreling, the neighbors settling in.

As the heavenly ear bends close, we become ridiculous in our thanking of him. We bless

the piles of laundry, the phone ringing, whatever we can get our hands on. It is all a gift now

for our living, panting animal selves who have awoken with this new fierce appetite for distraction.