“You think (those) we loved ever truly leave us?
                 You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever…”
                                                                           
                                                                                   –      J.K. Rowling

There are no words; this is not a poem.
There is nothing poetic, right, speakable,
or appropriate to say when the truth is
no better than the silence.  So.

I write you while I cannot speak
to you, or to the injustice, or to the horror
of a world that is not and never will be
fair.  Where a father can be the greatest

father, in every capability, and in the moment
when he holds his daughters in his palm—
that moment I couldn’t see, and cannot be
there for, again.  But I have to believe

what Einstein believed, about energy,
about the universe:  Nothing ever
truly leaves.  And I add my silence
to this lament:  No one ever truly leaves.

So it is, I know, with this tragedy.
So it is with your precious daughters.
So it is, always, with your friend, your brother,
who has cried for you for days.