The Calls

I thought the first calls would be the hardest.
The room just silent, I called my brother,
unable to say anything but his
name, over and over. Next I called my
friend—asked her to come though she was on her
way. My daughter’s voice, soft with sleep, crumpled
when I told her. Like spilled oil news spread to
the others, spared me the trouble. The calls
that followed were quick enough: the lawyers,
the funeral home, the place that cut mom’s
stone just two years ago. Weeks later a
reminder for his haircut dinged his phone.
I pictured his soft, light hairs falling through
skilled fingers. Calling his barber undid me.