Five O’Clock in the Morning

It’s 5am. You’re asleep in your bed. Your wife is next to you. Her hair is sprawled across the pillow with a few strands periodically caressing your face, spurred on by the waves of the overhead fan.

You shift in your sleep. Your hand seeks the warmth of her belly where it previously rested.

You smile, your subconscious mind comforted by the thought of your first child growing slowly in your wife’s womb.

There is an explosion.

The glass of the windows break into sharp shards and propel into your safe space.

The metal bars you paid extra for melt until they resemble the guttered remains of a wax candle.

The roof caves in, and bricks crescendo around you.

You did not suffer, the doctor tells your mother. Neither did your wife.

But there is no way for him to know as not enough of your remains were recovered.

You are cremated, for there is no time for a funeral.

Your mother lays you to rest at the bank of the river that was your favorite as a child, for it has stood thousands of years before you and it will remain thousands of years after. Some of your ashes are carried by the breeze and marry the dust of the once vibrant city you lived in.

The last piece of your heart, your mother thinks. She carries it in a locket next to hers where it remains until she perishes in the fog and smoke a year after you.