After Allison Luterman’s
                    A Mother I Know

I’ve carried the heft of
my brother’s suicide at 35,
the ponderous
obvious message
that we couldn’t halt,
the gunshot to the skull,
Final Answer.

No other loss came close
to the burden that one brought
loss of innocence
my own flesh seared
when the news
reached my ears.

Until today
the words piercing
he’s gone, Mom,
Jordan’s gone,
my primal answer NO.
No other way to respond,
just a moan, a whimper
then silence.

The pain of losing
my grandson
overshadowed
by my daughter’s
destitution, irreparable rift
in her very identity
aneurysm?    Impossible.

Weeks away from 37,
too young
will his 3 year old son
remember?
Will his brother survive
with only a phantom 
sibling?
This sequence is out of order 
Unfair, unjust,
Just Not Right.
Out of order.