I never saw it coming. So, when my father drowned from an addiction-related accident fifteen years ago I collapsed into a rigid state of denial. Utterly shocked. For ten years, I clung to disbelief and even though losing him was the very thing my family constantly tried to prevent, I didn’t see it coming. Death stayed firmly on the tip of my tongue, my mouth a prison, my teeth a row of bars. Oh, but we never said the word out loud. Other people say with surprise, “You didn’t see this coming? Surely you had to see this coming!” In those moments, I want my barred mouth to open so wide that the scream will unhinge my jaw and blast the world to pieces.

Listen, it’s not like we don’t expect an addict to die, every day the very last time for everything: the last signed check, the last cigarette. The final wisp of smoke, a floating vine. A prayer on the lips that will never quite reach the sky. This might be the very last time a trapped fly escapes the window’s final yawn. A second-hand sigh from the clock on the wall. The last stamp on an envelope, next year, expires. It’s not like we don’t expect an addict to die. We just never see it coming.

No, we just never see it coming on our watch.

Daune O’Brien reads and writes from the deciduous forests of Maryland. Her poems have appeared in the MetaworkerLiterary Magazine and Quartet Journal. Daune’s memoir-in-progress interrogates the implications of gender roles on grief, while unearthing unexpected healing and preservation in the natural world. You can find her on IG @dmobrien