They won’t admit it,
but some people watch the dying
like they’re afraid they might learn something.
As if death might notice them noticing
and turn its face.
Curtains breathe apart.
The flick of a lighter,
a kettle’s shriek,
a phone buzzing with quiet verdicts.
“Ambulance again.”
“He’s outside.”
“Still no movement.”
The grief is tidy at this distance.
Contained.
No blood.
No sound.
No scent.
Only flashing lights
and the shoulder of a woman
who doesn’t wipe her eyes.
Down the street, someone stirs onions.
Steam fogs a window.
Someone lights a candle
and pretends it’s for ambiance,
an apology for not knocking.
We’ve forgotten how to enter mourning
without needing an invitation.
We’ve made grief a spectator sport —
a flickering feed,
a casserole dropped at the door.
But still —
still someone watches,
and someone cooks,
and someone texts,
and someone doesn’t know what to say,
so they say nothing,
and let the pot boil instead.
Because when death comes
and you weren’t the one beside it,
you still want the dying to know —
I saw you.
Even if only
through the window.
