Southbound on U.S. 101, news radio reports
another school massacre. An odd-looking airplane
climbs and banks, lumbers out of the Van Nuys airport.
I almost hit the center divider staring at its configuration,
straight wing span, pods in the front of the wings—
weird place for jets. Wait, those are propellers glinting
in the sunlight—a vintage DC-3 drones over my car.
Like the plane, I'm the sole survivor of my family of origin.
We are ancient structures, still sleek and functional,
claiming our place in the afternoon, yet outward bound 'cross
that celestial sphere of time, like the victims at Sandy Hook School.
First responders found bodies of the boy and his teacher together,
with her arms wrapped around the child. She loved him and he loved
her and she would've looked after him no matter what, he wasn't alone
when they dropped over the horizon.
Us Jews are fortunate not to have the clutter of heaven or hell
added in our worries. All that forever remains are memories
of loved one's deeds, remembered annually, on their date of passing.