That CallThe phone rings as I zip up Frankie’s jacket. It’s Mom. She and Dad are at the oncologist for the results of Dad’s biopsy and CAT scan. All she says are two words.
Frank J. Tassone
I stop zipping my son’s coat. The light off the tiled landing, the specks of lint and cotton on the burgundy carpeted stairs, Frankie’s protests: Everything fades. I stand silent. For how long, I can’t remember.
December cold . . .
Crying and trembling
In her arms