my sons

My first child died when he was six. I will never forget the twisted
metal wrapped around his chest, grasping his young essence,
breathing it in, exhaling his death.

I don’t know that I remember the details of that day. I know the look
in his eyes. I see it now in every photo of him. It wasn’t there before,
but now it never goes away.

So when I got the call, years later, that began – He’s alright,
but there’s been in an accident – is it any wonder that I didn’t believe.
I knew he was dead. I wanted to die.

Is it any wonder that I checked the medicine cabinet before I left, took
with me all that would bring me comfort, peace. Maybe bring
me to my child again.

Is it any wonder, now, that I worry when he leaves the house. Seventeen
years and I have managed to hold on to this one. But the road I do not
trust. I know it lies in wait.