Yesterday makes 5 years since one of my dearest friends chose to end his pain. I choose to share the poem I wrote after his funeral as a form of catharsis. It still hurts me to drive by his old house or want to talk wrestling with you. I miss you brother.
Light dances its way through the windows.
My eyes make their way from panel to panel,
assessing the stories told in the stained glass.
Depictions of Jesus,
Apostles and Saints.
Across the room I see the panel representing the Mother.
The mother who witnessed an immaculate conception.
The mother who watched her child grow into a man. And then
that mother watched him die.
My friend was no Jesus, no Apostle, no Saint.
Yet still my heart feels for a mother.
A mother who witnessed a conception.
A mother who watched her child grow into a man. And then
a mother who found his cold body lying on the concrete.
My friend chose to alleviate his pain
but it is we, his circle, who are left broken.
It is we who are left crying as we remember a life.
Now I cry.
I cry because my friend is gone.
I cry because I must sit;
I must endure the piercings of sad words.
I am crucified to this pew
as these words are meant to comfort the pain of my loss.
Words that flow from a man standing behind a white pulpit.
These words that fly from his lips pierce my brain,
sending jolts to my heart and water to my eyes.
Chris Brown, 2017
Images: Trinity Church Stained Glass Windows in Boston, Massachusetts by and accredited to AgnosticPreachersKid – Own work, 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36276349