June Dew

In 2009, I watched my husband bury his father;

his strong, active body had been

no match 

against the burst blood vessel in his brain.

A year and a half later, on Father's Day,

I paged through a hymnal

with Ed's neice and nephew

choosing songs for their daddy's funeral.

Three years ago,

my three-year-old stood on tiptoe

to see into her daddy's casket,

a body consumed

by a monster in his brain.

Three months later,

a dad shoveled dirt onto the grave

of his eighteen-year-old daughter, Ed's niece.

Last week that same dad

buried another daughter,

while her three-year-old daughter watched.

Ed's family has faced too much loss.

Small children will never know

their daddy, their mother, their grandpa, their aunt.

Young lives

vanished

before the day was half spent.

We've needed Ed's dad.

He would have been our anchor, 

yet his huge soft heart would have volunteered

to go first.

I can't comprehend heaven. 

Does Dad knows that one by one

his family is joining him 

too early, too abrupt, too premature?

But maybe, 

from his height

above the mist and mountain craigs,

the view looks different.

 "We have heard with our ears, O God, our fathers have told us, what work Thou didst in their days, in the times of old." Psalms 44:1

Photos thanks to the photographers who share their work at pixaby.com.