I passed by a cemetery today and saw a small crowd, dressed in dark clothes on a late spring day,
holding white balloons.
Attentively, these gifts of honor salute the sky, the sky lined with gray clouds, filled with moisture; forming into droplets falling upon them.
Did they notice?
They who await, the words--the words that will tell them to let go, go in peace, remember but move on.
Do they hear them?
They stand, lean, wobble, cheeks streaked with wetness not from the rain.
Did he die in pain?
What lesson could possibly be taught, learned or preached, that would be worth such a loss?
A child is being buried today, in the soggy soil, surrounded by sweet prayers, loved ones,
friendly support, and those balloons; those hauntingly still, white balloons.
Can he feel their love?
I view an umbrella or two, left folded, so as not to burst the delicate white offerings above them.
A girl clung to her motherís waist, her balloon sagging lower than the others.
Was that her brother?
They stand like angels, awaiting one whose fight was lost and who will sit amongst the clouds, free-spirited
but stealthily spirited away, so young.
I passed by a cemetery today and saw the white balloons, a tribute to a young child,
taken away too soon.