The Dreaded Question

This morning The Compassionate Friends, the wonderful organization that supports parents of children who have died, posed the question about what we say when asked how many children we have.


That question is a tough one. Right after our son died I would get so emotional when that question came up that I almost couldn't respond. I would do anything to avoid the question so I wouldn't have to answer it. Saying I had a son who died just made it more real. Now, it's easier. I just tell it like it is. 


Here is the poem I wrote about that dreaded question about two years after he died. 

It happens again like so many times before.

I’m at my sister’s house,

talking to her neighbor

someone I’ve just met

and she asks me the dreaded question

one that I’m avoiding

by talking about what a great day

this has been in Portland

and isn’t my sister’s garden just beautiful

and what do you do for a living

and where are you from.

And there it is,

after I’ve tossed the salad greens

put the tomatoes in the bowl

and sliced in the avocado

“How many children do you have?” she asks.

And never missing a beat

I say, I had two

but now, only one.

My oldest son died.

Then I leave to get myself together

and wonder what she and my sister are saying

while I am lying down in my room.