The Bereved Father, a poem

Try not to judge the bereaved father. He comes in many forms.

He is breathing, but part of him died in May.

He may look steady, but inside he is unrecognizable to himself.

He answers when you speak to him, but half his mind is at a desk, on "the call" at 11:39, forever.

He goes to work, he eats, he sleeps, he exists

but existing and living are not the same thing anymore.

He is standing in front of you, but he is also standing at a casket, and he will be standing there for the rest of his life.