The night my older brother told methat our mother had cancer, I criedfor so long and then I went to bed.I dreamed that she had died. I woke up and cried.If it happened in the dream, would calling ittrauma be apt? I buried my facein the pillow so my brother who sharedthe bed with me would not be aware.My sister was the only one we had heardcry that night. The rest of us, men, had lookedfor quiet spaces in the bungalow,somewhere we would not be found, somewherewe could keep our masculinities intact.But when I went to work the next morning,I did not know how to tell my colleaguewhat I had heard last night. I buried my face,sobbing, while he stood there, looking at meas if I was a Norman Lewis painting.I tried to contain my embarrassmentand almost suffocated myself;I had refused to see the darkening clouds,but now that the rain was here, it soaked everything.