I can only imagine Noah’s shoes
That a favorite uncle helped him lace
While tussling his hair, wild as the stories
He told his sisters before he raced
Out of the house into the twilight, heedless
Of his mother's cries, "That boy, he'll be
The death of me," or his father's nod
That knew despite his mother’s fears, if he
Fell, he would pick himself up and run
Again. But now his father must enter a cold
Room where his son, hair neatly combed, lies
In the suit that his mother has picked;
He must rub scuff marks off the shoes
That Noah will wear when they close the casket,
Sealed with his mother's tears, "Don't mind me,
Child, go from this dark world into blue skies."
Image Source: http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2012/12/16/167390094/in-newtowns-tragedy-futures-cut-short-and-families-left-with-voids
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