Black Sweater

My son died four months ago.
He was loved. He was lovable.
I hear his older brother cry sometimes
They were not just brothers, they were friends.

No one truly knows what it’s like to lose a son.
If you haven’t been through it you can’t possibly
Understand. People tell me I should get out,
Live my life as usual, they are kind to me but

They can’t possibly understand.

I have experienced great loss in my life.
My mother was eighty four, and I guess that’s alright.
But my father was sixty when he died,
My husband fourty, my brother also.

My son was thirty eight, he was jolly,
He left two kids and a wife.
I am seventy two and I am oh so tired.
If it weren’t for my other son who’s still alive . . .

I don’t know why I insist in wearing a black sweater,
My son did not want me to. He told me so.
But people . . . I don’t know . . .
I guess it is just what I’ve been brought up to do.

His wife wants to visit. She wants to buy a wreath
For his grave. But I told her to wait. It would be better
For the rain to go away. Shame to throw money away
On flowers which will die anyway.

[A man approaches our table at the bar]

This is my other son. “The only one left.” [he says]
I need to leave now. It was a pleasure meeting you.

[The woman with the black sweater leaves,
another approaches.]

“You knew her son, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think so.” [I say]
“Sure you did. He was the guy to whom the doctors told,
‘Drink another drop and you shall die.’”

[Featured Painting: Mourning Woman by Egon Schiele]