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Poem

The question I ask is
Simple
One that has been asked
For thousands of years.
I ask God,
Crying.
The family,
Remembering.
The doctors,
Angry.

Nobody can tell me
The answer to my question.
Silence meets my plea,
My demand,
My scream to the universe.
Others ask
My question.
Everyone wants to know, but
No one does.

The question
That inspired genius,
That broke boundaries,
That wrote and rewrote the limits of this world
Is short.
Three small letters, yet
It feels enormous in my mind.
Three small letters, yet
It seems the most important of all.

Why?
Why is there death?
Why did he die?
Why did they say he was fine?
Why could they not save him?
Why,
Why,
Why?

I will never know.
We will never know.
Me, and everyone who hurts.
We know we cannot find out why.
We know it is pointless,
But still, we ask.
Why?

So maybe I should ask
A different question.
Like,
How?
How do I heal?
How do I move on while still remembering?
Or
What?
What can I do?
What should I say?
Or
When?
When do I cry?
When do I laugh?
Or 

Maybe
I should not ask a question.
Maybe 
I should love
I should care
I should be there for the people who need me
Even when it hurts.
Maybe I do not need
To know why.

Because I cannot know why
It happened
I can only know 
That it did.
I could fight
For justice
For the doctors who
Said it was fine
Said it was normal
Said he did not need help
When he did.
I could make them pay for what they did.
Or I could choose
Forgiveness
Even though
They don’t 
Deserve it.

I am selfish.
I do not want to forgive
I want to hate.
But hate will not bring him back.

And I am ashamed. 
Ashamed because
He would have forgiven.

So I will not ask why
And I will forgive.


In memoriam J.R.F.

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