Richard Kalfus

It makes no sense,
not in the normal cycle of life.
"A child should never in death
precede the parents," they tell me.
"Time will heal," I hear.
"He's in a better place," I hear
from family,
from friends,
from colleagues.
They sound like nursery rhymes,
naïve refrains sung over and over.

I am angry,
for I am his mother, his friend,
his protector.
"Get out of the sun.
Don't forget your umbrella.
Don't swim where I can't see you."

I even wallow in the thought
of time passing without him.
Is that all that remains?
My anger, my sorrow, my pain?
How can the loss of time together
become less of a loss tomorrow?
How will I ever live again?

A sudden reflex motion,
I open my wallet,
a photo falls out.
In one hand he is holding
a red balloon,
in the other hand
his well-used blanket.
He is laughing.
I can see that.
I can hear that.

And I let go of my anger,
perhaps not forever,
but for now, he is beside me,
and I am laughing too.

I am old,
So I've been told
By magazines and TV commercials
Portraying perfect complexions,
Perfect hair, no bald men there.
Perfect sculpted bodies,
Ready to jog
To save the world
In an Alzheimer's benefit run.
Am I envious?
You bet I am!

I was naked
So many years ago
Standing before the army doctor
Who wrote, without a word:
"The 19-year-old is fit to serve."

A quick glance in the mirror now
To register
The wrinkled, blotchy face,
Protruding stomach,
Breasts I never had,
The bald head of Mr. Clean,
Alas, without the muscles
Of television fame.
I look around
At the men and woman of my age
In the community pool
And am comforted
In a grotesque way
That I am one of many;
I am not alone.