Frail Body Going Home
By Julia L. Cox

My fingers hover over it as if trying to feel out
If some of his spirit is left.
But it is just a yellowing piece of paper with two
Little wrinkled footprints on it.
My hands tremble as I tentatively touch the edge,
But then draw back as if in fear of it crumbling.
Losing one of the last bits of him.
Little pictures and images,
Of one frail little purple body,
All stand so close to me in my mind.
But the two of us are separated by the years,
Years you can‚t take back
No matter what you wish.
The idea of him is like that one day in spring
When there is every combination of weather,
A flower shyly opening for the first time since fall,
Only to close when the snow comes later.
The day that anything seems possible.
For him I don‚t cry like you do
Because we have not met nor spoken,
Never looked each other in the eye.
I mourn for him with question,
Doubt and imagination.
What would it of been like to not be alone all those weekday nights?
How different my life would be if I he were alive today?
Where would I be? Would I be different?
He had 18 days of life,
And those 18 days were full of
Tubes, x-rays, flashing lights,
People monitoring his every movement.
I guess he wasn‚t meant for this world,
And the only time when he really lived