Twelve: the hours in the day

Which my heart still beats

Reminding me that I made it out

When you never did.

The number of months in the year

During which I think about that day

And remember what we did

And what we did not.

The age of your son, or close to it

Older than, I imagine; nearly a man now

The birthdays and memories so fond

That you never got to see.

The years it’s been since we lost you

In what was probably preventable

But also was unavoidable in the way

War is; its detestable glory calls the willing.

The number of times I’ve wanted to

Visit your grave when I thought about

How to spend my annual use-or-lose

But was too crippled by fear;

Afraid to meet your family but

Ashamed that I never have.