The Day My Son Died

The doctor came to tell us that he had died I thought it was just for that day, so I went to bed early and slept well.

But the next morning I heard them talking downstairs; apparently he had still died (even though the doctor wasn’t calling to tell us today).

So it’s gonna be a few days, I figured; we might as well have a funeral. We drove hundreds of miles in dozens of cars finding and losing the way ‘round and ‘round standing ‘round and ‘round, crying, listening, crying listening standing and standing around.

But when it was over he had still died so there was nothing to do but drive home. It took hours and then the refrigerator had broken down. We soon fixed it but he had still died.

And every night after that I slept as long as I could to give him a chance to not have died.

But in the morning they were always downstairs and when I asked if he had still died the answer was always, "Yes."

And so it went into a week and then it went into two weeks. Eventually it went into months.

And it kept going.

It wouldn’t stop.

It kept on having happened.

No matter what I did, it refused to not have happened.

Even if I wrote in my diary about it

Even if a wrote a poem about it

Even if I forgot about it,

IT didn’t forget about it.

Not for a second was it caught off guard.

It was as stubborn as the music of the spheres.

It just wouldn’t let bygones be bygones.

To this day it has happened.

It insists on having happened.

It will never tire of having happened.

Nothing will distract it from having happened.

It was more than one day. It was more than one week.

It was more than months. It was more than years.

And it knew it – ALL the time.

Marion Cohen