Four years
After they buried him
So did we
Three hours south
From us
One hour
Into Alabama.
Beloved son
Says the granite stone
Children shouldn’t die before their parents
Says my husband.
We are lost
In grief and lost chances
Words not uttered
Days not lived.
When we leave the stone in the grass
And the son underneath
Headed north, we are musing
About the state we are in
Until we see:
Tennessee starts at the Piggly Wiggly
© beatrix brockman
