The candles in the room remain un-blown,
The crevices on the bed still untouched,
By the morning due, unknown,
The fists still in pain, unclutched.
The walls of the baby’s room still unfinished,
The toys still placed on the corner, diminished,
Papers on the table top still wet with tears,
The wind still screams in all its fears.
The air in the atmosphere seems uncomfortable, grasping,
With all its might to make some sense of the situation that might just not be,
What could have been, still shadows over the eternal debate between reality and death.
The paint in the room still, unfinished, reminds them of all they gave up,
All they sacrificed for the loved one that just wouldn’t be,
All they cherished in the memory, non-existent,
And the only recollection of the past that they could remember is the doctor saying,
“I’m sorry, it just can’t be.
I’m sorry, it just can’t be.”
The views expressed by the writer and the reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of The Express Tribune.