Remembered Death

My first experience of death, poem form. Also addressed in the story "Why Don't They Shoot Me Already?"

 

Remembered Death

 

“Why don’t they shoot me?” you said,

you’re legs shaking in pain,

the cancer squeezing your bones,

months before you left us.

 

I’ve always thought your spirit rose,

As I walked, lost, in Springfield,

off the Trailways bus,

looking for the Amtrak station.

 

I wanted to be home, though

Only in Amherst two weeks,

For Yom Kippur,

missing my family

and Melinda.

 

I called from Penn Station

And heard Norman’s voice

Not my mother’s

Or my dad’s,

Tell me he’d meet me in Hicksville.

 

Norman told me

You’d died

When he picked me up,

Or maybe on the phone

 

And I helped Nana

By phone the next day,

As Apprentice shrink

And comfort bearer.

 

Yours was not my first death,

But my first grown-up one,

A template

For those that followed.

 

A weekend of odd feelings

Trying to give ease

Yet guilty and unsure

At my own pleasure at things.

Reviews

[Krystal Waters]

Your work, your profession people don't give you much for your own thoughts... your own world. I think this really says how you feel. You comforted others but who comforted you? You write now to get those feelings out and I am glad there is an open gate for you. We are all human and strife is always around the corner. Stress, madness of work, deadlines... and of course the worst... a death of a someone you loved so much. I can only say that with these words I think you have noticed your own self... you are writing your own thoughts about what you think about yourself instead about your career. A fine line and yet you are getting there... and every poem I read from you I see more and more of David Peeking through. Take care my friend...


Krystal