7 Minutes in Heaven (a Corrie Poem)

7 Minutes in Heaven

One,

         I used to think of winter

and December as nothing 

more than cold and ice with

its branches bare. Once I 

despised the way leaves 

crunched beneath my boots

when the ground had frozen,

and how soon orange faded,

and black awoke, but

Two,

      That became the truth of

May, and not December when

I came to despise it every year

and every day; no matter my

day of birth, kisses and hugs,

honeysuckles and bugs, and

anniversaries and anything new

because 

3, 

    I knew the moment when 

I was the last your eyes looked

upon before you died, I’d hate

and despise May for the rest of

my life. I’d want nothing more

than to watch every part of it

burn where the devil dwelt.

Four,

     in truth, May became nothing

more than cold and ice within

my soul … because of what I saw, 

and what he stole. When I 

walked from her garden to the

door, I still heard leaves crunch

beneath my boots when my

heart was frozen, and how 

soon the pink of sunset

went to sleep.

5

   the feelings of May and December

do not end or stay the same, but 

you never know what emotions

grief will expose, or the choices 

you will make when your 

heart breaks.

Six 

    I’ve since learned in the 

eighteen months since I lost 

my little girl, who loved to

wear her red winter coat made

for church in a March rain, that

December reminds me of the 

time when her father first 

entered my life below a small

town’s Christmas tree lights.

I’d left my gloves at home, and

he gave me his pair.

When the black awoke, the white

lights lit up his face. He smiled

the exact same way when our

little girl was born one

December day.

7

   Seven

  minutes in heaven. I want,

I wish, for seven minutes in

heaven. Oh, I wish on a star,

and for 7 minutes just to 

see my little girl’s face 

    like I saw it on her last 

Christmas Day.