Cicada

The night he died
I was living in a cabin
in the woods.
Isolated, and without
electricity, or phone cords,
I was teaching myself
guitar by firelight.
18 years old, I was
strong and without fear,
this was before life &
time kicked my a*s.
Before the universe
conspired against me.
Before I conspired
against myself.
A knock sounded
at the door. 
My cousin telling me
that I needed 
to call my father,
but would not, or could not,
tell me why.
In darkness I ran
to the country store,
and used the pay-phone.
My father answered 
with voice sounding
cracked and ancient. 
"Your brother had 
an accident."
"Is he alright?"
"No."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes."
Like a bad actor,
I dropped the phone
and sat hard 
in the dust.
The Cicadas 
were singing,
what seemed to me,
the saddest song.
This life would never
be the same.