The Paradox of Death

A child of five years I was

Sitting, waiting, confused.

People whispering in hushed tones;

People crying with sorrowful mourns.


“Where’s mommy?” I asked.

No response.

No one wanted to answer. 

No one did answer.


A child of five I was;

Lifted up, looking at, and wondering why

Everyone was watching daddy sleep.


“Why is daddy sleeping?” I asked.

No response.

I touched his face;

I kissed his cheek.

He was cold.


“Why is daddy cold?” I asked.

Finally, a response:

My mother’s eyes flowing with tears,

“Daddy’s not sleeping, Peter.”


I didn’t understand;

I couldn’t understand

What was happening.


A man of twenty-two years I am

Sitting, thinking, contemplating.

I think to myself;

I cry.


“Where’s God?” I ask.

No response.


A man of twenty-two years I am;

Looking up, crying out, and wondering why

Good men die young,

Why evil men live long.


“Why is my dad dead?” I ask.

No response.

I see his face;

I hear his voice,

But he is gone.


“Why is my father, a good man, dead?” I cry.

Finally, a response:

God’s hand wiping my tears away,

“Your dad’s not dead, Peter.

He’s only sleeping.”


I understand what has happened,

It is the paradox of death:

They are not sleeping; they are dead.

They are not dead; they are sleeping.


In loving memory of John Francis Elliott, beloved husband, father, and brother. I miss you Dad.

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