“But you’ll get to see her again in heaven.”
“When can I go?”
“You’ll go when you die.”
“Can I die now?”—
And suddenly, death becomes warm
and inviting to a six-year-old boy.
Warm to release his pain.
Warm to be near his mother.
A seed was planted.
It would be packed away—
unpacked on tough days.
The seed would grow,
nourished by silence and time,
giving birth to his cloud
that followed behind.
Quiet whispers to the boy,
false promises of death—
a warm blanket to help him rest.
He’d dream of meeting her on tough days,
blood escaping with his pain,
successfully failing and growing in age.
Older, understanding the false
worn blanket of distress.
Close to her is not found in his death—
it’s found in her love,
in family,
and healing tears that remain.
- william goynes