 Prince's Adoption Poster |
 Prince |
 Prince & Sparky |
 Prince and the front half of Arthur |
Prince's Adoption Poster |
Prince |
Prince & Sparky |
Prince and the front half of Arthur |
I drive to the east to search for the kindness of the needle.
I try to be a mother made of glass at this last moment, caring for a warm
furry child of clear blue and grey and love, not wanting to cry
because you still need me to be strong for these final moments of goodbye.
The hurt after it's over runs too deeply for me to cry; I shed shards of
clear crystal
that turn to stalactites when they hit the ground.
My baby boy did not leave footprints or a shadow. He has been reduced
only to a world of concrete, ashes, and sound that fades away.
His green blue eyes stay in my mind, the only remnant of
a flickering tiny candle's flame disappearing into night and a muted
black and white photograph, fading into past greys.
I wanted to try to find a coffin or an urn
big enough to hold his memory
and charred enough to hold the pain
but all that is left
is a lost gust of wind
and a pattern of scattered ashes and fur
leaving streaks
and strewn aimlessly across green lands of forever, carried by golden
rivers to the farthest stretch of the rainbow ahead, to lands of cotton,
lakes guarded by mountains, and a yellow and orange sun that washes
away the night and carries the dawn away from sunset.
I look for you over the rainbow, searching for the outline of your memory,
knowing I can't see into that land, but desperately trying.
All I see is a distant fuzz, or a wisp of drifting smoke in the distance.
If I could give you part of my soul, if I could peel it off
the way a child peels a segment from an orange
and let that be your air and fill you once again with color,
then I would do it, and watch once again
as your eyes fill with every multicolor of happiness
like silver reflected off a New Year's midnight confetti
and once again you would be in my arms, purring (like always).
But for now there's nothing left
except your favorite toy blue ball, now chewed and mangled,
your favorite sleeping blanket, now empty,
and the drying tracks of my tears in the waning light
as the dawn becomes sunset
and your bedroom fades into darkness.
Linda O'Connor
p001858b@pb.seflin.org