Life's Too Short

by Jenna Moscaritolo

So playful and so pure,

I watched my baby boy,

with permanent grass-stained knees,

from my new rocking chair powered by the wind.

He’d pick me the most offensive of flowers

to add to his mediocre collection.

He’d even bring them with

a pot of life and

a glacier of hope.

So innocent and so naïve,

I watched my flourishing boy

with focused eyes on the screen,

from the dusty rocking chair pushed by my legs.

I wondered if he grasped the burden of death

but he’d just brag about his skillful numbers.

I’m not sure how he learned those curse words,

but I can taste his violent wrath

clawing at his bedroom door.

So vacant and so silent,

our house has never been so still.

I stare lifelessly at a stain on the carpet

from the carcass of my baby’s console

from my crippled rocking chair

that tremors from the pounding of my heart.

I ache as I hear hollow profanities echo from his room

and imagine which flower he would have chosen next.