When as a kid, I learned death comes to all,
it petrified my childlike brain.
I hid behind a self-constructed wall
and vowed I’d not participate in pain.
My mother saw I was avoiding grief,
and thought my mental health at stake.
It’s part of growing up was her belief.
This fear is something she must shake.
A neighbor died, and Mom thought I should go
with her to pay her kind respect.
I cried and said I did not want to know
or see the change death might reflect.
Mom went inside to see the man who’d died,
and left me sitting in the car.
Someone she saw did sculpting on the side.
His work, she’d show me from afar.
When Mom emerged, she carried in her hand
a head I thought was the deceased.
This thing she held must be something she’d planned
to somehow see my fear decreased.
I screamed out loud and dived below the seat.
How dare my mom bring him to me!
She stood confused, not knowing this retreat
was fear that caused her child to flee.
She took the art and hurried back inside.
My daughter must have lost her mind.
Back in the car she questioned why I cried.
She knew why I had stayed behind.
“You knew I didn’t want to see that man.
How dare you bring to me his head!”
She laughed at me because I thought her plan
was just her way to show the dead.
She told me what she held was just some art.
“I thought t’was something you’d enjoy.
How could you think I’d take that man apart?
That’s not a trick I would employ.”
“You silly girl, I’ll let you take your time.
Forcing may push you o'er the brink.
To rid yourself of fear, may be a climb.
Your mom’s not crazy as you think.”
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