Thursday, March 31, 2011
Two friends of mine, hardly blood brothers,
have this in common: they both lost their mothers
to heaven or a better man at the tender age of four...
the same age as Beatrice when they met us.
Like all my friends thay brought her treats,
teased her sweetly or applauded her feats
so that I thought, how good - they are healed -
they are here with us grown ups on the other side.
Until I noticed how when Beatrice cried
the great racking sobs of a child who is tired,
or defeated, or strung out like straining wire,
these friends followed when I carried her to bed,
stayed for the story, the caressing of the head,
waited for the bottle, the curtains drawn across
on a room full of children and their irreparable loss.
From I Flying