An American Tragedy.


It happens every day.


At the most inconvenient of times.

At the ungodliest of hours.

Death strikes.

It’s not supposed to.

But it does.

We have an allotted time on earth.

So why do we shorten it?

Why do others shorten it for us?

A car on a dark road.

Going too fast.

Going too slow.

Weary driver.

Worked all night.

Eyes tired.

Body tired.

Reflexes slow.

Reflexes asleep.

The squealing of brakes.

The breaking of glass.

And silence.

Silence that lasts forever.

It only takes an instant.

It takes less time than that to die.

And death is so unnecessary.


In distant lands.

In dark alleys.

On city streets.

In broken homes.

A bullet.

Shot on purpose.

Shot at random.

Whoever really knows?

It strikes.

A life ends.

A day ends.

And no one ever wins.

But someone always loses.

Usually a wife.

A family.

A child.

Lives are so vibrant.

Memories fade.

What happens to life when it’s gone?

It’s gone.

And all that’s left is love.

And sadness.


And grief.

And a child who may never remember a father.

Or a mother.

Or either.

They simply don’t come home again.

Did they ever really exist?

There is only a photograph behind a dusty glass in a gold-spackled frame.

A smile.

A hug.

And, like a memory, the photograph fades.

What’s left?


Date of birth.

Date of death.

That’s all.

It is the American tragedy.

, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Related Posts