On a mother's perception of her child's perception of death
Looked up at me like never before,
“Mommy”, she said, “if you get dead,
Then I won’t have a Mom anymore.”
My heart leapt up into my throat,
My heavy hands dropped to my knees,
I strove to catch up and devote
My mind to say something with ease.
But speechless was, and stayed that way
Until I said “Who told you that?”,
And thought in vain what to convey
In words to my precocious brat.
I could have said so many things,
So many things about death, to see ‘f
She’d comprehend the peace it brings,
As does pain’s companion, relief;
That death completes all we begin;
For every kiss upon on her face,
And every time I cradle her chin,
And every warm and snug embrace,
There is a kiss yet to be planted,
A cuddle her chin has yet to feel,
A warm, snug hug yet to be granted
Through an application of death’s dark seal.
“I made it up myself”, came the response,
And I, by now, had had enough;
She went back to her squiggly fonts,
I, to my laundry, and other stuff.