A child of five years I was
Sitting, waiting, confused.
People whispering in hushed tones;
People crying with sorrowful mourns.
“Where’s mommy?” I asked.
No response.
No one wanted to answer.
No one did answer.
A child of five I was;
Lifted up, looking at, and wondering why
Everyone was watching daddy sleep.
“Why is daddy sleeping?” I asked.
No response.
I touched his face;
I kissed his cheek.
He was cold.
“Why is daddy cold?” I asked.
Finally, a response:
My mother’s eyes flowing with tears,
“Daddy’s not sleeping, Peter.”
I didn’t understand;
I couldn’t understand
What was happening.
A man of twenty-two years I am
Sitting, thinking, contemplating.
I think to myself;
I cry.
“Where’s God?” I ask.
No response.
A man of twenty-two years I am;
Looking up, crying out, and wondering why
Good men die young,
Why evil men live long.
“Why is my dad dead?” I ask.
No response.
I see his face;
I hear his voice,
But he is gone.
“Why is my father, a good man, dead?” I cry.
Finally, a response:
God’s hand wiping my tears away,
“Your dad’s not dead, Peter.
He’s only sleeping.”
I understand what has happened,
It is the paradox of death:
They are not sleeping; they are dead.
They are not dead; they are sleeping.
In loving memory of John Francis Elliott, beloved husband, father, and brother. I miss you Dad.
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