In the crying hour,
You look so vulnerable,
So frail
In your blue bunny slippers,
Wearing no make-up,
To camouflage delicate lines,
On a face of frozen glass.
People ask you,
"Why did he do it?"
And you feel stinging
Read boils of rage,
Raising on your neck, at such
Blatant insensitivity.
"He was my son,
my first-born!"
You rail from your savagely bruised,
Prison of pain
But there is hope:
Take heart in the belief
That the time will come.
When the hour arrives for your
Final departure from your dismal world of decay,
Your loved one
Will be calling you home,
And someday
You'll embrace him again.
Jane Wanklin,
1997.