The cold steel door with the window to hell
You may wonder why I included this dark poem. You may ask what you can learn about healing. The act of writing this poem and telling this part of my story, helped me heal. By expressing the ugliness of identifying my son, I bled out some of the poison of his death. I encourage you to express the poison of your child's death in a way that moves you forward in your healing.
I open the cold steel door with the window to hell.
I stop, frozen in place.
Against the wall a gurney, dead body included;
male, unknown, gunshot to the head, body set on fire.
I’m told it could be my son.
The sheet covering him reveals his face,
twisted slightly to the wall,
locked in place, unseeing, vacant.
I gaze upon the face with fearful eyes.
“I don’t know him. I don’t know that person.”
“What would you like me to do,” asks the coroner?
I continue to stare at this young man with the bullet in his head,
hair and eyebrows vanished; skin taught and crinkled.
“Please don’t let me know you,” I inwardly scream.
Stiff, waxy, blurred features,
existence voided; an empty suitcase.
“Show me his stomach,” I whisper, body shaking.
“Our boy has his initials tattooed on his stomach.”
His mom and I were mad; made him look unclean.
I’m asked to wait in the outer room
while the sheet is rearranged. More dead body exposed.
I open the cold steel door with the window to hell and step out.
Ever been in a morgue to look at dead people?
It’s bright, like the sun’s in the ceiling bright.
And quiet, underwater quiet.
It’s clean, but it smells.
Smells of misery and fear; panic and pain.
There’s normal stuff; computers, pens,
a chair pushed back when someone left for family and fun.
Normal stuff feels painfully odd.
It should be a battleground with blood filled cups;
an arm dangling from a coat rack;
a severed foot jammed in the toilet;
a head on a stick; screaming, screaming, screaming.
But, it’s not. It’s 9 to 5 ordinary.
Moms, dads, brothers, sisters come here.
“Yes, that’s him.” Or, “Yes, that’s her,” they say.
Then leave to drift through their canceled lives.
“We’re ready for you Mr. Anderson,”
the ever-so-normal guy says
in his ever-so-normal way
like a game show host calling on the contestant.
Am I a winner, the 1000th parent to open
the cold steel door with the window to hell
and ID their kid?
Do I win a life returned?
Should I say to him, “Thank you very much,”
or turn and run. I stay.
Again I gaze upon this body, my heart thundering.
And then……and then……and then……………,
there they are, three telling letters,
the initials of a son extinguished.
Middle letter sliced in half by the knife
that invaded for the autopsy.
The cavern of the cut runs to his throat.
One reckless, repulsive stitch hides nothing.
He looks like slaughtered cattle.
Guess they didn’t expect me to see him like this.
Guess they thought his face would be enough.
Wrong guess.
My trembling hands cover my mouth,
tears splatter my shoes.
“Yes, that’s him. That’s my boy,” I mumble.
What did I just say? I did not say that!
That’s not what I said. Can I take it back and start over?
I want to vomit and make this room dirty;
dirty as my son’s death.
His right hand sticks out from under the sheet,
frozen at an odd angle, like he’s waving to me, saying,
“Bye Dad, sorry about all this.”
For 21 years I held that hand.
A warm, lively and alive hand.
I hold it one final time, press it to my cheek,
kiss it goodbye, kiss my son into eternity. “I love you.”
I open the cold steel door with the window to hell and leave.
I’m still leaving.
You may wonder why I included this dark poem. You may ask what you can learn about healing. The act of writing this poem and telling this part of my story, helped me heal. By expressing the ugliness of identifying my son, I bled out some of the poison of his death. I encourage you to express the poison of your child's death in a way that moves you forward in your healing.
I open the cold steel door with the window to hell.
I stop, frozen in place.
Against the wall a gurney, dead body included;
male, unknown, gunshot to the head, body set on fire.
I’m told it could be my son.
The sheet covering him reveals his face,
twisted slightly to the wall,
locked in place, unseeing, vacant.
I gaze upon the face with fearful eyes.
“I don’t know him. I don’t know that person.”
“What would you like me to do,” asks the coroner?
I continue to stare at this young man with the bullet in his head,
hair and eyebrows vanished; skin taught and crinkled.
“Please don’t let me know you,” I inwardly scream.
Stiff, waxy, blurred features,
existence voided; an empty suitcase.
“Show me his stomach,” I whisper, body shaking.
“Our boy has his initials tattooed on his stomach.”
His mom and I were mad; made him look unclean.
I’m asked to wait in the outer room
while the sheet is rearranged. More dead body exposed.
I open the cold steel door with the window to hell and step out.
Ever been in a morgue to look at dead people?
It’s bright, like the sun’s in the ceiling bright.
And quiet, underwater quiet.
It’s clean, but it smells.
Smells of misery and fear; panic and pain.
There’s normal stuff; computers, pens,
a chair pushed back when someone left for family and fun.
Normal stuff feels painfully odd.
It should be a battleground with blood filled cups;
an arm dangling from a coat rack;
a severed foot jammed in the toilet;
a head on a stick; screaming, screaming, screaming.
But, it’s not. It’s 9 to 5 ordinary.
Moms, dads, brothers, sisters come here.
“Yes, that’s him.” Or, “Yes, that’s her,” they say.
Then leave to drift through their canceled lives.
“We’re ready for you Mr. Anderson,”
the ever-so-normal guy says
in his ever-so-normal way
like a game show host calling on the contestant.
Am I a winner, the 1000th parent to open
the cold steel door with the window to hell
and ID their kid?
Do I win a life returned?
Should I say to him, “Thank you very much,”
or turn and run. I stay.
Again I gaze upon this body, my heart thundering.
And then……and then……and then……………,
there they are, three telling letters,
the initials of a son extinguished.
Middle letter sliced in half by the knife
that invaded for the autopsy.
The cavern of the cut runs to his throat.
One reckless, repulsive stitch hides nothing.
He looks like slaughtered cattle.
Guess they didn’t expect me to see him like this.
Guess they thought his face would be enough.
Wrong guess.
My trembling hands cover my mouth,
tears splatter my shoes.
“Yes, that’s him. That’s my boy,” I mumble.
What did I just say? I did not say that!
That’s not what I said. Can I take it back and start over?
I want to vomit and make this room dirty;
dirty as my son’s death.
His right hand sticks out from under the sheet,
frozen at an odd angle, like he’s waving to me, saying,
“Bye Dad, sorry about all this.”
For 21 years I held that hand.
A warm, lively and alive hand.
I hold it one final time, press it to my cheek,
kiss it goodbye, kiss my son into eternity. “I love you.”
I open the cold steel door with the window to hell and leave.
I’m still leaving.