It’s been two years. The anniversary. The day
I discovered that blood doesn’t wash away
as easily as drawings made with crayons,
& that the left over images of chubby fingers wrapped
around waxy pencils, even if they were scented,
would never be enough to chase away
the images of dying men falling to the ground,
being felled like so many trees. The images fueled
by childish imaginations & drawn by scarlet crayons
held in small childish hands, equally indistinguishable
as the drawing your blood made on the walkway
two years ago today. When you were little, I’d spend hours trying
to decipher drawings that covered the walls before
I’d get down on my knees & wash it all away.
But I hardly bothered to search for any discernible
images in the splatters of blood that soaked the ground.
Down on bended knee, I tried to scrub the rocks clean
but nothing could make the stains vanish. You fell down,
the largest tree around & yes, when you fell, it did
make a sound. Blood gurgling in your throat drowning
any last words you might try to utter. Like a pot of water
boiling on the stove. Those aren’t coffee grounds
at the bottom of my cup, it’s mud & your blood. It’s
the leftover crumbles of unanswered questions. Did your
soul linger, looking over my shoulder as I tried to wash
your blood away? Do you come around occasionally to see
if the one who killed you ever visits the place where your
life was stolen away? Do you ever come back to celebrate
the anniversary? Will you come back today?
I will line the sidewalks with candles
knowing the light will provide a way for you to find your way
back home. I hope your soul is hovering nearby expectantly &
that you will meet me this year to celebrate our anniversary.
Two years ago today: the day your life was stolen
away from you & the day I was forced to murder my own son.
Peace & Love,