Day 978

Little one, your father
bent over your body and wept,
rocked, moaned, until
they wrapped you
in a white shroud
and took you away. Now
your father will never
walk with you sitting
on his shoulders. Now
he won’t teach you
how to peel an orange, laugh
as the juices run
down your chin. Now
there are thousands of words
you’ll never speak, names
of friends you will never know.
Songs your father will never
sing to you, books
he’ll never read to you,
facts about rivers and mountains
he’ll never teach you, looking
at maps together in fading daylight.
Now when your father is asked
how many children he has,
his heart will always stumble.
He’ll take a breath
that should have been yours
and remember your eyes
looking up at his
and sigh, and subtract one.