Recoil

Recoil

It hurts when it happens, the look, and way you turn your head
The reaction to the words I am saying to tell you of my son
I can tell you are uneasy, that the ideas and thoughts are hard
And rather than hurt my feelings, you try and wait it through

I am so sorry that the words have touched a chord, a place
I see it in your face, and I know you care, and that you want to love
The sheer emotions are just too raw, electric and fearful, dangerous
So as you ever so gently recoil, my compassion for you grows

It is not a topic that I want to discuss, nor share today or tomorrow
I would rather have told you the pleasant things of a son's happy life
You were not to first to recoil, to be overcome with the horror
It hit me the night I was told he would die when he was born

Today I speak of the losses the way other parents speak in pride
Of the accomplishments that the child has fulfilled, go kids
I have but 20 short weeks of memories and no new ones are coming
But still I need to share my son with others to make him real in life

Oh God, if I could bring him back and share with you the bumps
The scrapes and the joys. To tell you of the Christmas morning and the fun
I want so bad, you will never know, to have those memories to talk about
And watch other's faces glow

My son is dead, and I am in pain. My question now that I must ask me
Is it you who is recoiling, or me reflected in you. So maybe for both of us
Allow the words to be, honor the short-lived child by listening to the story
Then I would be afraid to talk for fear of causing you pain. Thanks