January 18, 2008

In the spaces outside

the house, a father and Saint Francis

wear unmatched mantles of white;

weighted paperwork and lightest snow.

Within, a brother plans the next mission

to Mars, commander in control

of the living and the dying, adored

by scores of brothers in arms.

A mother stumbles on

words, repeatedly writing: funeral,

seizure, failure. Later and incomplete,

they will eat pizza, for the days he lived

and the day he died. No cake

will be made, in honor of the boy

with the blinding smile.

We can't begin to explain, and you can't begin to understand, except by trying. Thank you for trying, and in the trying, loving us and and honoring Isaiah.

Peace.