Chris's father Fred wrote these poems after Chris died at the Roswell Clinic in Buffalo.
Holding hands
Smooth, cool, grayish yellow with purple knuckles
Cool and heavy with smooth nails
I held his hand, caressed the backs of his fingers with my thumb
Heavy and cool
Not cold, not wet
Limp and cool
His hand
I held it
And I wept
The Healer
She was quiet and walked delicately
“Hard to understand, it’s nonlinear” she said
She walked into the room to touch my dying son
To guide the flow of eternal energy
And save his waning life
“I see…over him”, “warmth flowing..”
An eternal hour, waiting,
“Green”, she said
Cash in hand she walked into the night
My son died on November second
I lost him in the mist three days before
Then it was 45/35
43/35
42/32
40/35
his heart was beating
then night came
Chris
He was too big to get my arms around
And I had to look up at him.
With energy contagious
father and lover
companion to my uncertainties
how do I remain his father
I had to, had to, had to, had to, had, had, had
to
to
o
