It has been 7 months to the day to the hour to the min to that split second when daylight-savings-time became eternity What day is that you ask? the day the sun rose for the last time the day my son rose for the last time What hour you ask? it was around noon I am told What minute? We can give or take a few of those What second you ask? The second was that split segment of the smallest minute of measurement when a life my son's life Dakota's life spilled over that edge of earth time (as we know it away) Dakota is dead the doctor said And I said no Your son is dead he said yet again and my scream came loud and raw and uncontrollable grief such a small word only five letters such a soft sad quiet word i thought i knew so much about it how to shape it. form it. manage it. yet it thrashes through my brain waves like a tide pounding circling around and around coiling squirming like some screaming ugly snake until its death rattle snake and hisses me in the eye striking so fast i'm not ready are we ever? i went home i anguished i languished numb from shock i slept exhausted dreamless unrefreshed people answered my phone for me people cooked for me people understood me i became an animal instinctual senses heightened muscles tensed with an acute awareness of the very air i breathed the wafts of incense from his room hiss footsteps up into the attic the clean soapy smell from an untaken shower his bottle of cologne still full his ghost spirits moved through the house as he made his good-byes almost brushing against my shoulder with a last wispy hug my dearest friends cared for me when i didn't care i try to understand what isn't understandable he was only 14 just have my age