Bereaved
Each year on December the first,
I remember for twelve years ago,
my mother, my wonderful mother
gave our family a terrible blow.
She passed away quietly at home,
and I made this solemn decree,
Each year on December the first,
I’d take flowers to the cemetery.
This year while at her graveside,
in midst of my own silent prayer,
I heard a wail in the distance,
and saw a man kneeling where
he held his hands to the heavens,
while he looked up into the sky,
and shouted out time after time,
“Tell me why did you have to die!”
It was obvious he was in need,
of comforting with his ordeal,
for I had not witnessed before,
the way this man seemed to feel.
So quietly I walked to his side,
where still he looked up to the sky,
and shouted out time after time,
“Tell me why did you have to die!”
On his shoulder I placed my hand,
while he cried that comment again,
I thought maybe talking might help,
to ease him through part of his pain.
I said to him “Was it your child?”
Still crying “No” he shook his head,
so I asked then “Was it your parent?”
“No, my wife’s first husband!” he said.
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