Atocha Station, Where the Line Stopped

Weeks later I still mourn
being a housewife, my trips limited
to the grocer’s, upstairs then down
for indolent chats with neighbors.

Manuel left on Thursday morning,
never came back. There must have been
a moment when I could have burnt
his toast, made him miss the train.

When the first sirens spliced
the streets, I was cleaning windows.
From across the hall, Isabel banged
my door. I was the last to know.

Weeks later I still ring
his mobile phone, listen to the refrain:
This is a nonexistent number. This is...
I double check, dial again.