“When You’re the Daddy and Something Dies. . .”

You carefully tell

the family, he or she is gone

and you take care of the tears.

You hold the remaining family members close;

this is not the end; you know.

There will be more throughout the day

and you must be there for them.

When you’re the daddy and something dies. . .

You tenderly dig a hole

in a non-conspicuous spot,

some place feet will not trample

or soccer balls roll.

This is now hallowed ground

and a border of stones will not hurt.

This is a place for remembering now.

When you’re the daddy and something dies. . .

You lovingly place the pet

in its resting place and apologize

for putting dirt upon it.

And as with all holes, there is always more

dirt than hole now, and still not enough

to fill a place in the heart left behind

by the absence.

When you’re the daddy and something dies. . .

You wait by the new plot

for the children to come down the small hill

in bathrobes and slippers to see

where you placed the pet.

They will be bearing hand-made signs

and you must remember—

this is not your time to cry—

it’s a time most tough and tender

when you’re the daddy and something dies.