Christmas, 12/24/06
by Aaron Cohen
I.
It is impossible
that he whose confidence made him invincible to his children and wife is now gone.
It is not possible.
It is night now. I am writing this poem.
Every day he helped and he gave.
We know tomorrow will not be a magnificent day,
nor a day full only of pain.
I will get on a plane and fly sadly through the clouds to join the others in their
unmistakable grief
chanting it is not possible, how could this possibly be fair?
II.
Today is Christmas.
But there will be no presents opened in this house, in his house.
(we opened presents)
I hope we will light the fire that
he once took great pleasure lighting (it is now burning).
It is winter here and we are cold.
There are no flowers now except those that have been cut.
Can he touch what we cannot touch
Can we what he cannot?
We are doe-eyed and we are spent.
III.
We ate the elk stew at the barber's party together.
We handed history into trucks, fitting the past together like a puzzle.
As I picked up things awkwardly he could tell stories
while effortlessly moving heavy dressers into place with his strong hands.
He took his children under his wing and they are
still under his wing.
Grief has the word "If" hidden in it, but there is so much more to it.
Lord, there is no need for this.
The word for fear or even guilt in Japanese does not exist.
Here, the word to encompass this should be written up in the Book of Unjust.
I was told to bring music and photographs, things we could hold.
-Aaron Cohen, Christmas Day
Copyright 2006
Do not reprint without permission from author
