by Chanel Brenner
I sat across from him,
shooting his portrait with my phone.
His charcoal sweatshirt faded
into the dark booth.
He played tic-tac-toe
in the dim light.
I should have known
something was wrong,
when he scribbled his X’s and O’s
like a toddler—
should have known
his brain’s weak vessels
were bleeding again.
Should have put down the phone
and looked him in the eye.
Should have noticed
his half-eaten ice cream
melting in the bowl.
At a Restaurant the Night my Son Died first appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review.
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Every Thursday we publish “AfterTalk Inspirational.” We invite readers to submit their own poem, essay, or suggestions for inspirational quotes for publication. If you are a therapist you are welcome to extend this invitation to your clients as well. Please send your submission to info@aftertalk.com
This hit me in the gut. We always feel like it’s our fault when our child dies…even when it’s not.