Oklahoma City 1995 - poem

Shirts coiled on the floor, tossed with Frisbee spins.

Stuffed animals grinning from unkempt beds while fallen plastic heroes lie in a line, a defense against the shadows in the closet.

It's a scene from an uncompleted play that will never reach the public stage. Our last token and gift of those now gone.

What a strange and haunting present, this.

So, what are we to do with their silent room?

Shall we strip away all the evidence of the lives that once resided here to create a blank space without a past?

Every day's a pattern of changelessness. We march to and fro, to work and back; down the street, up the stairs, across the floor without ever arriving where we want to be.

No longer does the shrill laughter echo.

Quiet is the drumming of tiny feet. A gift from God has been stolen and no man-made court can bring us justice.

So, what do we do with their cluttered room?

Shall we leave the sad disarray untouched to preserve their memory in a crypt just down the hall from where we now pace?

In the grating silence we're, not alone; voiceless companions await our return: Sleep is a friend that stands just beyond reach and there is no greater foe than wakefulness.

We ask you, what do we do with their room?

When the child grows past the realm of the nest this grim question has no strange inertia.

Thus, we ask, do we give away their toys?

COPYRIGHT 1997 Essence Communications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group