Grass

Long, thin blades

Protruding from the coffee-colored earth

Slice through the air

Like the cutting edge

Of a newly sharpened knife.

Reaching for the sky,

Higher, and higher still

Despite frequent attempts

To hinder nature’s growth.

Seemingly inconsequential

With little to no potential—

Yet vital to the survival

Of each and every one of us.

Daily we walk across the

Inch-high fields.

Never appreciating the beauty

Of this tiny forest.

Everlasting.

Through shades and cycles

Of life and death—

Never to be noticed as

The source of energy and vitality.

Andrew

If I had known

That was going to be

The last time I could see you,

I would have gotten up to say goodbye.

You left without saying anything—

So different from your usual exit—

And I just gave a head nod.

But then,

we thought there’d be a next time.

I can still remember the day it happened.

The phone call.

The silence.

Then two words.

Two small words that worked like poison.

“Andrew’s dead.”

In through my ears

And slowly spreading

Through every inch of my body.

The murderous voice

Said something about a truck.

Head injuries.

Driving too fast.

The details blurred to tragedy.

The night before we had made plans

For your birthday.

We hadn’t planned on a funeral.

                                                Realization

I hold my son

For what is most likely the last time.

He is not dying,

Just going away

 To live with strangers.

He looks up at me and

My heart breaks because

I feel like a failure.

Mothers are not supposed to leave their babies.