By Constance Miles, 11/18/20
Regrets bow head, heave shoulders.
Tymon is gone. No more will you see,
hear or smell him. No more will you
wrap your arms around him, holding
him close to your chest. Your animal
body is stricken to its core.
Tymon’s body is gone and you never
got to say goodbye. You never got
to see him one last time. How can
you wrap your brain around this? How
can you find purpose now in anything
else you have done? You regret
earlier self-focused times, wishing
you’d been more present for your son.
But how could you know otherwise?
The bottle claimed your own parents
when you were young. How could you
have known to be different?
You did your best, my friend, sharing
your gifts, infusing your son with
creativity. Now you post photos of
sweet together times, father-son
goofing around, of Tymon’s graffiti.
You share audio clips of Tymon,
the scratch DJ, of his techno mixes.
Tymon, a young man, full of promise,
full of question and contradiction.
A young man full of longing for better
health, stability, self-control. One
fallen prey to ancestral trauma, all
too young, snatched by the fangs of
addiction lurking in the dusk; addiction
snaking it’s way through the matrilineal
line as well, coiling tightly around Tymon’s
great-grandfather, long ago, lost to heroin.
Ancestral trauma, concealed in the shadows,
clinging close like the lingering aroma of a
burnt cooking pot, hovering close like the
darkened sky of an impending storm.
Ailing generations accompany us, clamor
-ing for healing, their ills co-mingled
with our blood, passed through our DNA,
finding solace only in our broken open hearts.
This is so much bigger than you my friend.
Your son is gone, but you are not to blame.