Life's Too Short
I sit in the back,
wondering why we are all here.
He was so young—this can’t be real.
Their cries echo as they walk by;
there must be some mistake.
He was only three.
Pictures of family and friends surround us,
flowers blooming in sorrow’s shadow.
No eyes are dry,
not a single tear withheld.
When it’s my turn to walk by,
I see his little shirt—
and I think of my own baby,
and how life’s too short.
At home, I kiss my daughter,
hold her tighter than before.
When I tuck her into bed,
I whisper, “I love you”—
every single night.
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