A child of five years I was

Sitting, waiting, confused.

People whispering in hushed tones;

People crying with sorrowful groans.

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.

I’m twenty-two now

Sitting, thinking, contemplating.

“Where are you, God?” I ask.

No response.

I’m angry

Looking up, crying out, and wondering why

Good men die young,

Why evil men live long.

“God, why?” I ask.

No response.

I see my Dad’s face;

I can hear his voice,

But he is gone

A fading memory.

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.