When we walked up the stairs and through the heavy white doors, down the carpeted hall to the low-ceilinged room, sat in the back row on temporary green chairs, and focused on the final frozen form of his father, it took a minute to notice that he had not followed.

The end now written;
laid down in stone.
Come by
by cumbersome ways.

Take me back
to where he broke
the glass he shattered
the bullets he spoke
the wrong that seemed to matter.

Put back the rifle
the black from which
no death wish ever returns.

Weave back the blood
to draining veins
replace the cries
and shouts
and silence
to lungs that breathe no more.

Lay little heads
back to bed
to rest and keep
their innocence.

-Kate Caretto