When It Happened

I should have gone to the funeral

booked a plane ticket

packed a bag

and come to stand with her

beside the short casket

in the midst of  wreaths, roses and baby's breath,

twined with rattles.

I should have sat down and called

listened to the the stories:

first bath, 

first smile,

when she found her in the crib

still and cold in those footie pajamas.

When it happened,

I should have slid a fountain pen 

from its velvet sheath,

carefully refilled the well,

and inked calligraphy onto linen paper.

I had no words to say.

Looking back, I should have stopped

in the card aisle, pulled any one 

from among the condolences.

I could have signed it with a ball point pen,

a dull pencil,

a permanent marker,

the stub of red crayon,

the black tar of my own fear.