hrj

There is nothing special
About this year, these deaths.
Time passes; lives end.
I was five when Kennedy was shot.
My mother sent me to school saying,
"This is why the teachers may cry."
Years later she told me that I replied,
"Why is this death worse than every other death?"
Time passes; lives end.
Some in peace, some in violence,
Some in relief, some in triumph.
There is nothing special
About this year, these deaths.
When I was five, those who died
Were my parents' heroes,
My grandparents' companions.
They were old.
Old people die.
But for the lucky,
We live to see the day
When those who die are our heroes
Our companions.
It isn't right that they die,
Because old people die,
And we aren't old.
We can't be old.
Ask a five year old, "Who died today?"
Who died last month,
Who all the deaths were in this year of years.
A five year old will say,
"Why is this death worse than any other death?"
These aren't their heroes, their companions.
The lens moves on across the years and magnifies.
There is nothing special
About this year, these deaths.
Time passes; lives end.
Some too early; some too late.
Magnified by our attention.
We are lucky, who live to see our heroes die.
We live.