At Six Years Old

At six, my best friend was my cousin; We
Did everything together. How we’d play
Games of imagination, games of chance:
Fantastic foes we conjured up, we’d slay
With swords and wands across a huge expanse
Of fields and mountains only we could see!

Within our world, we met struggle with ease.
We did in real life, too, until the day
I saw the empty whiteness of his face,
Placid, unfeeling. He had gone away -
Not off to our imaginary place,
But elsewhere, to a place nobody sees

Until they die. He lay there, still and pale,
A miniature coffin for a bed -
My mom had said that we were off to see him.
She hadn’t shared the news that he was dead.
I should’ve realized…The lights, so dim,
The tall men’s suits, so dark. The air, so stale.  

But I was six. I walked up, and I saw
My best friend’s body in a box; since then,
I’m only half alive, and the sensation
That death will soon steal someone dear again
Remains; I say “next time” to invitations -
“I don’t feel well today” - opting to draw,

Instead, my own plans to evade that pain
No child should confront. And now, each night,
The silent hours almost bring him back:
I see him, and I’m fooled that it’s all right,
He’s here, he’s only napping in his black
Suit and his clipped-on tie. What can remain

Of these thoughts as they fade out when I rise
Are things I see that drum up memories:
A curbside bin holding a small boy’s shoes;
A swing set, one swing rocking in the breeze;
Small signs of him, and how much one can lose,
Will never go away as the surprise

Of seeing him lifeless still feels so near.
Each day, I clearly see my best friend, dead;
It ruins me, breaks me, even in age.
My body grows yet older - in the stead
Of moving on, I fail to turn the page,
And I am still a boy, and he’s still here.

John Masella

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  John Masella would be pleased to hear them