Poem126: The Night Tracy Died

In the car
filled with girl
everyone's crying...
but me.

Eight years old
I look,
forlornly
out the window to my left
into a star-eyed sky
wondering why I cannot cry.

Pretty Maggie on my right
cries sweetly
her tears seem exotic to me
and I watch her face
wishing I could feel
as she feels

Why don't I feel. . . anything?
What's wrong with me?
Someone's dead
shouldn't I cry?
But what's death to an eight year old?
What does it mean?

I want to see the body
I want to see 'dead'
so it can be real to me
then, maybe I could cry
Then maybe I'd feel
wtih Maggie
who weeps
prettily into her hands.

Will they think something's wrong with me?
Everyone else is crying
even Mom
while she drives.
Is something wrong with me?

so I pretend to cry
taking cues from Maggie
imitating her sobs
crying with her
and for a moment,
my tears are real
not for the dead
but for myself
that I must Pretend
(What's Wrong With ME?!)

So I stop.
I'm not like Maggie
I cannot cry

I look
into a star-eyed sky.