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 wasnt calling to tell us today).
So its 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
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
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
And it kept going.
It wouldnt 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 didnt forget about it.
Not for a second was it caught off guard.
It was as stubborn as the music of the spheres.
It just wouldnt 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.