Something is Lost

The scream made no sense 
amongst the café’s outdoor tables.
Her husband spoke calmly, 
holding the hand of their son, 
as if reminding her they needed milk 
on the way home. But it was not 
about milk, because of the scream 
because of the pointing down the road 
at the scene or at the past which she 
could not get to in time. 
Something was lost.

Before the scream, the cafe full, 
we drank coffee and tea. She, maybe, 
ate the salmon bagel or the pecan slice 
and talked of plans for the day, like swimming 
or buying house paint or taking her mother 
the clove-scented carnations she loves.  
Those things you eat and plan and say 
before something is lost.

But then we watched, the way you watch 
a movie when the horror is unfolding 
and there is nothing you can do 
because the story is already written.
She tried to say to the owner, something
about rushing off like this, about not paying, 
perhaps, but she had no voice 
and the sounds she made were animal. 
We watched and it wasn’t a movie and 
none of us could leave.
Something was lost. 

One day, soon, her scream will be silent 
and the words she couldn’t find 
will come rushing back; but 
the thing that writes sorrow into movies 
and other people’s lives, that thing
that keeps us from knowing we are 
one cup of tea away from terror—
that thing wedged its foot in her door, 
never to be shut again.