Day 577

Every day his father
visits his grave.  Sometimes
he brings a book
or an article
to read to his son, as he did
in the old days – go
to stand in the doorway
of his son’s room, tell him
here’s something I think
will interest you….Other days
his father brings him news
of the family:  Your friend Samir
was martyred along with
his brothers;  your aunt Sahar
is feeling a little better.  Your mother
still cries every day.  The father
comes, sits, sometimes
turns on his phone so his son
can listen to a little music.
I know this was the music
you loved, he tells him
tenderly.  If you’d had
more than your fourteen years
you might have had
time to play, might have
become the musician
you wanted to be.  There
the father’s voice trails off
into sobs, into the sound
of drones, into the wordlessness
from the grave beside him.