That day, Sandy H

My beautiful son.
Just not me. Just not mine.
It happens again and it has happened again and I can imagine it now because it happens. It really happens. I can imagine the unimaginable. The unbelievable and confounding truth in a telephone call.
Who could imagine such a world? Who could face the bleak reality of the unimaginable phone call and the long drive to the end.
You must drive. Come to the school.
O the ugliness in our hearts…
Who could make that drive and not feel every part of your person dying by the mile dying by the familiar landmarks dying by numbness and dead hands on the steering wheel dying by the dying winter sun.
I hope I hope I hope. Please. please.
Just not me. Just not mine.
Your body imagining it’s end. The blood stops flowing somewhere. Ceasing to be.
All end all ending.
Maybe you’ll just never finish driving.
Now I can imagine it. My son’s beautiful school. My beautiful son. All of the beautiful children.
All of the tomorrows that were and the tomorrow you wish for.
His smiling face; the endless summer sun. His little, fragile body. Please tomorrow.
My beautiful son.
Just not me. Just not mine.
The ugliness in our hearts.

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