You Hand Me a Tissue

Author: Alyssa M. Burgart, MD, MA

This poem originally appeared in the book “Walking with the Shadows, Leaving Them Behind”. Republished with permission.

My child is alive

Thriving

But I feel the brick of death 

Laid upon my chest

Catching my inhalations

The first tears leave tracks

For the next to follow

In an awkward role reversal

You offer me

A kindness

Too much to ask

You fumble for the box

(As I have done so many times)

You hand me a tissue

You have such grace

This afternoon

Sitting firmly

On an uncomfortable

Hospital couch

Somehow not sucked in

By the black hole of death

That brought us here

It pulls me

By mere proximity

Just days ago

We were the same

You and I

Parents of kindergarteners

In a sea of five year olds

Our two twinkling stars

Making faces

Complaining about vegetables

Playing soccer

Drawing love notes

Full of existence

Inexplicably

Yours has  

Burned out

His blazing bright light

Gone dark

I imagine the calls 

Teacher and his empty desk

Friends with canceled play dates

Grandparents planning an out of order funeral

Insurance company requesting the death certificate

The very worst news

Compressed into sound bytes

The weight of death

Digs deeper

I scratch away my tears

With this dry, institutional tissue

My child is safe

I have never succeeded

In growing a mask

To hide emotion

I never really tried

I apologize 

For my lack of dignity

My absence of strength

The shame of daring

My compassionate pain

To be made manifest

When I have lost nothing

Not yet