Prison of Grief

The Prison of Grief

I am locked in the walls of grief,
becoming a prisoner
the instant I heard the words,
"Laurie, Jacob is dead".

I wanted to shake my head,
to walk away, it wasn't MY Jacob,
or MY doctor saying THOSE words...
and I had thought so well of him too.
But there he was, teasing me cruelly,
and I couldn't walk away from the joke.

I wanted to cry
but there were too many people
standing around,
too many strangers.
I wanted to ask questions,
but I was afraid to break
the hushed atmosphere,
and of sounding silly,
or too clinical for a mother,
rather than properly bereaved...
whatever THAT is.

I wanted to take my baby away,
home, where I could check to see
if he was really dead.
A day in my home of not waking up,
or not crying, or not moving
would have convinced me more -
rather than an ambulance taking him away,
or a doctor, a hospital, a funeral home.

I acted as a trustee
within the prison walls,
taking care of the details,
talking and smiling at the right times,
and comforting those who came to comfort me.

Smiles on my face
unable, un-allowed to express
the ugliness and the unfairness of it all.


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