Day 542

The mother is being held
by others — her sister? her brother? —
as she walks to bury her son.  She 
is wailing, sobbing.  Her other children
walk with her, heads down, silent.
Why?  Why?  What reason
could anyone give? This son,
this young man, her eldest.  Her
firstborn.  All
he might have done, all
he might have said.  The years
he might have had, the work
he might have offered.  His mother
walks, barely able to move
one leg, then the other.  She
is carrying the weight
of her son, though others
have borne his body
to the gravesite.  She is carrying
the weight of all his days
unspoken, unrecorded, unlived.