When my son died
I was devastated by
the colossal waste
that was his mind.
That rare nonjudgmental
visionary kind.
My flattened affect belied
a manic hemispheric need
to understand his death.
When my son died
I became less human.
Existed anesthetized
by pills and booze and doubt.
Garish makeup my disguise as
I contemplated the accident.
His body scattered,
mutilated pieces traumatized
beyond recognition.
Witnesses whispered “suicide “
at over one hundred miles per hour.
But his body was never identified
before the crematorium took him.
Some days I wonder if he’s still alive,
as I embrace the relief
of being childless.

Image credit:KIMBERLY McNeil

KIMBERLY  McNeil is a retired physician and Naval officer.  She resides in Florida with her husband of 32 years where she wages a daily battle with the contrived robots around her who are where they are supposed to be, not where they want to be.  She lost her only child, Dashiell Patrick, to a car crash in 2ol8.  He was 18 years old.