This hallway I stand, I can still hear his laughter and giggles coming from the yellow room. That door that opens into his room crackling vain echo is before me. These decorations, picture frames, hand marks on the walls and toys, such a quiet place I stand and watch you, hand on your waist, he is gone isn’t he? Over that window, the tombstone, the projected moonlight, there is no comfort is there? Where do we go from here? Must we run out into the streets wailing our voice through? Must we run out naked, hair disarray face contorted from weeping tears? In a way, we are already naked because of the struggle we had with conception. Our miracle child is now a shallow grave under a carved tombstone.
We could start all over if only age permits. Frail and wrinkle, pass menopause, come hold my hand and let’s repaint this yellow room black. He is gone.
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