there is a silence.

there is a silence when you leave your child at the hospital

when you admit your child, admitting your own inability, guilt.

there is a silence as you walk further and further away

from the raging child who wants you to be with him

but doesn’t know how to be with you.

the screams become more faint until they

dissipate into the elevator shaft that goes

down, down, down

bringing you to the silence of the traffic,

the silence of the sirens blare, of pedestrians gabbing,

of that doctor with her low spectacles, huge briefcase.

will her briefcase full of papers give someone answers?

or is it just a front, because really, what do we know?

what can we know about a child who sees things, who feels things

that the rest of us don’t, our senses silent to that child’s.

who is to say that child is wrong? that those things don’t exist?

because they do, somewhere, if only in the mind.

to silence an unquiet mind…

there is a silence when you back your car out of stall 60 on the 8th floor of the parking garage

when you back your car out, and look to see your child’s seat: empty.

there is a silence in the home, in the night, in the dark.

and you wonder, can your child find silence too?

can your child find peace.

how i wish for you, my deep, dear son

how i wish for you

peace