The thought of being thankful
fills my heart with dread.
They’ll all be feigning gladness,
not a word about her said.
These heavy shrouds of blackness
enveloping my soul,
writhe in me, and coil.
I must, I must acknowledge,
just express her name,
so all sitting at the table,
know I’m thankful that she came.
Though she’s gone from us forever
and we mourn to see her face,
not one minute of her living,
would her death ever replace.
So I stop the cheerful gathering,
though my voice quivers, quakes,
make a toast to all her living.
That small tribute’s all it takes.
Genesse Bourdeau Gentry
from Stars in the Deepest Night –
After the Death of a Child
Genesse Gentry 2009Tags: grief, hope