I am Sorry to Tell You

I am sorry to tell you
Your husband is dead.

Your wife
Your daughter
Your son
Is dead.

For twenty five years
I delivered tragic news.

They would open their door
See my uniform
And momentarily freeze
Unable
Unwilling to pronounce
The next reasonable utterance…
“What happened?”

They would moan.
They would fall down.
They would sometimes offer me coffee.
They would cry and wail.
They would ask me
To tell them again
To tell them precisely what happened.
They would ask if I were sure.

I always was sure.

They would ask
Was alcohol involved? Usually.
Was the death instantaneous? Lie. Say it was.
Where was the body? At the Coroner’s Office. Never say “morgue.”
Could they see it? They shouldn’t.
Would I take them there? Yes.
Maybe it was somebody else
With the same name? Never.

I would ask to enter their home.
I would ask to sit down.
I would tell them what happened.
I would offer comfort and prayer.
I would call their family and friends.
I would leave.

But the experience never left me.
After twenty five years
I continue to see their wide-eyed misery
The moment I shattered their lives.

The hardest thing is not death.
The hardest thing
Is telling the ones remaining
Their loved one has died.

Were I to compress the number
Of death visits I’ve made
Over twenty five years
Into one visit a day
Until they all were made
It would require
One visit every day
For five months.

I have seen death
Close up and personal
In all it's raw detail.

I do not cry much any more.
But I do not laugh much either.