The Lost Son

Silence echoes through the desolate hallways,
Speckles of dust dance within the sun’s rays,
Beams of sunlight illuminate the tenebrous staircase,
As towards their son’s bedside, they race,

Their quickened heartbeats thrash the left side of their weary chests,
They begin to panic, pant and splutter as they become increasingly distressed,
The sound of their footsteps fracturing the silence that haunts the house,
As they near the top, Dianne looks towards her spouse,
He snatches her hand and looks into her saddened eyes,
They didn’t want this moment to arise,
They reach the top of the spiral staircase,
A look of worry plastered their faces,

Hand-in-hand they shuffle towards their son’s door,
Dread takes over as they turn the handle once more,
They knew this moment could emanate at any time,
Ever since their son’s diagnosis at the end of July,
They swing the door open and rush to his bedside,
There was no pulse, no breath – he has died,

His mother’s knees grow week as she falls to the floor,
She releases a blood-curdling scream as clings onto the chest of drawers,
Her husband places a kiss upon the boy’s forehead and closes his eyes,
He too stumbles to the floor, mourning his son’s demise,
He crawls over to his wife and together they kneel,
Praying, wishing, hoping that why they have witnessed it not real,
“WHY?! Why my son?! Why me?! WHY?” She cries,
As her face is drowned from the river of tears in her eyes,
Her husband pulls her close, pushing her head into his chest,
“We tried everything my dear, we did our very best.”
Dianne rises and looks over towards her son,
She can’t bear the sight and so, through his door she runs,
“Goodnight my precious boy” His father whispers whilst closing the door behind him.
He staggers down the stairs and the realisation begins,

He becomes aggressive and launches a glass at the wall,
He knows that he has to alert the hospital, make that call,
But he cannot bring himself to do so; he doesn’t want to believe,
But his son has passed and all he can do is grieve,

Meanwhile, his wife wanders about the house, her head kept low,
He’d only been on earth for 7 years, born not very long ago,
She grabs a glass of wine, a photo album and settles in front of the glowing fire,
She takes a shaky sip of the wine and opens the album that she has recently acquired,
She reflects on her son’s life for some comfort, smiling but still in pain,
She’s angry at the world but refuses to use the lord’s name in vain,

She casts her mind back to the healthy days, where her son was free,
Where he was running through open fields, the wind in his hair, and a graze on his knee,
She remembers his drawings, homemade Mother’s Day cards and a tear stains the page,
She re-joins her husband, produces the album and calms his rage,
Together they cry, reminisce and they make the call,
The undertakers are coming for the body – so frail and so small.