A poem about my niece

[stafffighter]

Several months ago my young niece passed away. I won't go into details both for decency and other reasons that will be made clear. I started writing this almost immediately afterwards. I fought myself about finishing it because it seemed final. But then I was given the very good advice that my niece is not going to read this. That I should write it for myself. So rather than a conversation I wish we had had this is a conversation that I know we won't.

If there's a reason for posting this publicly its to say that if you ever feel unhappy or that you're in the grips of something more powerful than yourself, help is out there. There is always a strength beyond your own to reach to and there are absolutely people who love you.

For Her

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You never got to see your world smell like dust on old plastic.
You deserved to.
And earnestness in ironic songs.

–

Clothes you still had grown to icons.
Hats.
The belt you stole from me.

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Seasons off from your memory.
The untreated wood on that porch.
New England rain on the grass.

--
--

It's all just meat.
In stone or song.
Anything we sweat.

–

You'll never know your boy.
Unless we're all right.
He's going to be so tall.

--

I don't know that night.
I'll never ask.
For reasons dull and selfish.

--
--

The years put on your mother.
Crying at a mall.
The strength of age.

--

That quiet room.
What wasn't you.
I put in a movie.

–

I had to shuffle down that narrow ramp.
You'd have laughed.
I don't even know that.

--
--

Last night I had a dream about books.
Beaten paperbacks mostly
On wood shelves and in piles.

–

They were left in burned out houses.
On remains of second floors.
Yellow but not rained on.

–

I saw them far then close.
But I never dug for treasures.
I drove by many houses.