Mantra

When I open my eyes each morning to a new day,
my child is dead.
When I yawn, stretch before arising, and dangle my feet off the bed,
my child is dead.
When I worriedly listen for my other son’s soft breaths as he sleeps,
my child is dead.
When I am overjoyed at the presence of those warm breaths on my face,
my child is dead.
When I eat breakfast with my still-breathing son,
my child is dead.
When I laugh and hug him, relieved and thankful,
my child is dead.
When we hurriedly walk the dog before leaving for school,
my child is dead.
When I drive to work and curse at the traffic,
my child is dead.
When I arrive at the doorstep of another week,
my child is dead.
When I sit down at my desk to begin my day,
my child is dead.
When we chatter about the mindless television we watched last night,
my child is dead.
When we decide what to eat for lunch,
my child is dead.
When I eat a yogurt instead,
my child is dead.
When we complain we’re tired after lunch and need a nap,
my child is dead.
When there is so much to be done,
my child is dead.
When there’s little to be done,
my child is dead.
When there’s nothing to be done,
my child is dead.
When I absently drive home,
my child is dead.
When I am elated to hear children’s laughter in the schoolyard,
my child is dead.
When we excitedly share the stories of our day,
my child is dead.
When we sit down to dinner,
my child is dead.
When I cheer at baseball games and finish checking homework late in the evening,
my child is dead.
When I close my eyes and pretend to sleep,
my child is dead.
When I smile,
my child is dead.
When I mourn,
my child is dead.
When I breathe,
my child is dead.

And when I live,
my child is dead.