The memories play like an old 19th century film,
colorless,
blurred,
silent,
slow.

The movie starts like any other,
normal days of play,
shared smiles and laughter,
that’s what our little angel brought to us.

He was only 9 months old,
but had eyes filled with curiosity,
and enough love to turn Jesus green.

But there was a cruel twist,
one that should only be in the movies,
where masculine heroes are helpless at saving the innocent,
and fathers fail to shield children from rough reality.

Like a torturing suspenseful movie,
everything slowed,
each second of havoc
was a minute more in painful misery
and an hour more in trembling horror.

The inaudible screams of loss,
weaving an echoing thread into your brain
so deep you never forget the pastels of his skin.

The credits roll as his life ends,
but the movies glamorize a peaceful closure.
Life is not as sweet.
Because we live,
every day we suffer.

The silent cries a child hears from a mentally crumbling mother,
and the teary eyes and shaky hands in fear for every child’s life,
those are our scars.

His movie,
a forever replaying memory.