Tear Soup.

Two years ago tonight, my dad answered the phone and woke me up with the news. I remember sitting up and immediately clutching his arms. It was surreal and awful, but reflecting on it now I'm more able to see the beauty of that moment. Those first several minutes spent hugging while the rest of the house peacefully slept are something only my dad and I will ever know, but I find peace that we shared it together.

I am trying to not think too much about the details of what happened tonight two years ago, as they are painful to comprehend, even though I don't exactly know what happened during the accident. Yet still, memories of a hospital seep into my consciousness and will continue to tomorrow.

Several weeks after the accident my dad wrote this poem. I share it because it is beatifully written and speaks memories that are now on my mind.


I don’t want to tell you

I don’t need to tell you

Oh young daughter of mine,

Of the thrill of new found love,

Of the maturation of well grounded friendship,

And the pleasure of balanced partnership.

I don’t want to wake you,

Oh beautiful daughter of mine,

From the sleep of recently whispered love,

From the slumber of contented relationship,

And the dreams of life milestones yet to come.

I don’t want to tell you,

Oh innocent daughter of mine,

Of collisions and twisted metal,

Of broken flesh and shattered bones,

Of collapsed lungs and cerebral oxygen levels.

I want to protect you

Oh beloved daughter of mine,

From endless unknowing emergency room hours,

From clutching hugs and somber conversations,

And hesitant visits to critical care rooms.

I don’t want you to have to see,

Oh sweet daughter of mine,

The quiet form of your beloved,

Artificially maintained by IVs and tubes,

Gently marking time with rhythmic mechanical breaths.

How I long to spare you,

Oh wonderful daughter of mine,

From the premature grief of lost love

From the instant insertion into the adult world,

And the incapacitating emptiness of absent companionship.

My whole parental being cries out,

Oh dear daughter of mine,

Against your precocious introduction to death,

Against this gut wrenching soul depleting loss,

And the life long fallout of this moment.

But, at one o’clock AM on a Tuesday morning

Oh sleeping daughter of mine,

I can do none of these.

My parental bag of tricks is empty,

And I can only approach your bedside as a fellow mortal.

Becca, can you wake up?

-6/17/09