I didn’t think of him (maybe I did).
More like I tried not to think
of how small he once was.
But his wasn’t the first I saw,
the first, “chilling” she called it,
I couldn’t take.
It was of a boy on his back,
shirt below his chin
like when he shows his
belly button for the song.
“Shirts up!” they cry.
And we proceed to sing along
to an ode to our most confusing part.
His pants around his ankles
and I hear his sister sing
“I see London, I see France!”
as we work on getting him
to actually use the potty
with the promise of M’s
and Paw Patrol underwear.
His hands are above his head,
and I see so many things
“Hands up, don’t shoot!”
a boy baking in the road
No! It’s the nightly sight
of his sleeping comfortably
spread out like a starfish
but I know he isn’t sleeping.

When I saw Aylan,
he was younger.
But the clothes were the same.
Little blue shorts
a red shirt like his Mom.
I always see her that way
red and blue jeans
Still pudge in his legs,
but he’s face down
and the water is too close
and I am called down to the ER
a toddler, coming in, reported drowning
he is 2, they say.
The parents don’t know
that he died in the ambulance.
And I don’t know what to do.
I almost gave it up then.

I rage to GOD that these are my children
even when they aren’t.
This desperation, this leap of faith
I’m so fond of encouraging in others
but tragic here,
evil visiting through our indifference.
We aren’t indifferent, are we?
We care, somehow, but is caring enough?
And I return to this boy
my little starfish
(why isn’t he just sleeping?
Wake him up!
Won’t someone wake him?)
and I have the more disturbing thought,
more embarrassing, really
that he was once a star
but now, is more like driftwood.