that someone else’s mother, once,
saved a drawing
such as this.
Your cartoon face,
that crooked crayon smile,
something about you
held firm in it, even at 5.
Below the teacher has written
in perfect felt marker script
what you told her-
I want to be a soldier when I grow up.
I have stopped here
in the hallway
by your self-portrait
and though I have called others over
to see
they do not let themselves.
I have stopped here this morning
to let my heart break for a moment,
just as I do every evening
on the nightly news,
when, in our house,
we observe in silence your passing.
© Janice Riley, 2013. All rights reserved.


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