Jaydon Alexander Burwell

December 13, 1998 – February 14, 2021

The morning sun rises in the gap between the bedroom curtains,
sunlight slices across my face.
My mind stirs slowly through the fog of sleep
and I say the first prayer of the day,
“God has given me another day. Let me make it good.”

Swiftly, dark clouds roll over my mind,
I tremble with the roar of thunder.
rain spills over my face and my body.
As I lift into consciousness, I know.
He is gone. My boy is gone.

Under the covers, I cry without shivering so to not wake my husband
who will gently rise, quickly dress,
shutting the bedroom door to leave me in sweet darkness.

He goes to hold up the mantle of grief.
He makes breakfast for our kids,
calls my mother, his brother, our very closest friends.
He nods the children one-by-one to the knocks at the door
to take in food, flowers and a supply of tissues.
His bulk stands guard at the crack in the doorframe to
shoo away those from church, firehouse, and near-by friends
who only want to talk about what we don’t want to say out loud.

I hide in a dark of good memories.
My two boys smile into the camera.
My skinny boy’s body at the beach.
My laughing birthday boy.
My kids playing “pass the baby” around the dinner table.
I smile back at times when he was here.
He is my boy; I will be Jay’s Mom, forevermore.

To my dear friend, her husband and family, 2021

​Story inspirations and ideas are my own. Thus, positive reactions are welcome. Criticism not.