A little boy was mauled by a dog yesterday,
dead at eight years old,
torn to pieces while riding his bike on a Monday afternoon.
A young man,
driving a friend home,
killed in a random accident,
cold circumstance,
over in an instant.
There are those who defend the dog,
even though a child is dead.
"The dog is not to blame..."
The shattered world of that family,
the torn body of that little boy,
that dog should already be dead.
I tried to talk to her today,
she walked right by me,
too caught up in her bitterness to remember what it was once like,
all that distance in those far away eyes,
wishing death to me,
the way you tell me that I am already dead to you.
What once was,
torn apart,
scattered on the road from here to there,
nothing left to give,
only the blame you radiate to me like daggers from your eyes.
Angry little girl,
boundaries all around your world,
But I still wait for you,
I still give and you still fade away.
The funeral came and went.
The sympathy of others stopped.
The inevitable turn of the world continued,
cold reality,
covering them like a coat,
that does not fit right.
We all pay attention when someone dies,
we ignore the way the dead walk among us,
how they drift away from us little by little,
until we no longer remember the last time we saw them,
or what their laugh sounded like,
or how they used to be little blond girls,
who came to your bed when they were scared,
but now wont even speak your name,
because of something you said or failed to say a decade ago.
These things they go away,
replaced by something else,
never to return or come again in any way.
We don't have to wait for the funeral,
we loomk at dying things all day, every day,
in unanswered letters,
when hearts turn to stone because of bitterness and envy,
and an unwillingness to forgive,
or to reach out and grab an extended hand.
T. S. Deary
2/5/25
Pictures Assembled From Memory 