The boy two doors down

Smiling faces greet us at the door,
unusual, but self-assure.
Tears are running down her cheek.
A mother should never look so meek.
Life took and took and took some more.

His sister sat by him in a chair
running her fingers through his hair.
In a far away world in her head
her baby brother was not dead.
She hoped she would wake up there.

Old friends and acquaintances too
would shake my hand, hope to renew
the times we shared–the dreams,
a lifetime ago, it now seems.
But an old friend passed–what do I do?

What do I do to show I feel blue?
Do I hang my head, stare at my shoes?
Do I smile it off, like others near me?
Do I furrow my brow, pretend to be angry?
Or do I whisper a prayer to you-know-who?

As I walk to the casket I realize
I am no one, nothing–and this life lies
too short not to cherish each beat
of the heart I neglect, but keep.
I am years away from the cries.

I grab a pen, as others before,
but I am never quite as sure,
that sending him off to a better place
is best through messages with little grace.
I never wished to be a great writer more:

I’m not sure where to start,
but I realize we must part.
When we were younger, a signed cast never
really made the arm feel better,
but I’m hoping this will fix my broken heart.


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