There is a silent presence.
The children don’t see it-
     innocence is the shield that blocks away evil.
Everyone else, some being stone
     others with red-rimmed eyes
They see it. 
Even those whose vision is so blurred 
     by the onslaught of tears.
They see it.
I noticed it. 

A horrid coldness filled me
     but I did not shed a tear.
How can I cry for a soul I’ve seen but once?
A person who might have laughed at jokes
     or might have abused kids?
A relative who never touched my cheek
     or called just so I could hear his voice?
He broke up our family.
He disappeared from our lives
     yet he became the center of attention upon his death.

A year later,
I was still being told to leave the table for bed.
I would lie still and hear my aunts
     weeping for their brother.

My grandmother had a new golden picture frame
     on her mantle
Of a bearded man with rosy cheeks 
     a child could mistake for Santa Claus.
On Sundays, she would kiss her fingers
     and press it to the glass once as she passed.
She thought she was still kissing her child.
This man became an angel.

I was told that he would hear my prayers.
This man caused tears in my mother’s eyes
     and a wail I could hear in the darkness.
This man I would never forget
This man I never knew.