He ties the strap on his left hand, as he had seen
his grandfather do it during his childhood, then
puts the knocked-down lamp back in its place,
covers up his dead wife with fastidious care,
and raises the shutters in the kitchen.
He opens the door to the children’s bedroom,
and quietly pulls the floral curtain to the side,
sunlight pours in. He turns around, he bends down.
But she is breathing, he thinks. He cradles
the dead little girl, dresses her nicely,
puts her in the car seat, carefully buckles her in,
takes her to school. It’s seven o’clock.