A Place Called Dead

Before and after death drawn by grieving child at my center

When I was twelve,
my father moved to a place called dead.

No one explained where that was
or what it meant.
No one said there was no return ticket.
No one said it wasn’t my fault.

Left to figure it out on my own,
I knew it was because of me.

If only we hadn’t argued the night before.
If only I’d been a better child.

For more than a year
I waited
for him to come home.

……………………………………………………………………………………

I wrote this based on my own experience at twelve, and the words of hundreds of grieving children I heard at my center for grieving children.

If this poem touched something in you, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. And if you know a child — or an adult — carrying this kind of silent grief, please share it with them.

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