I'd feared this day since you drew breath and cried.
You were a perfect gift from Heaven above.
For many years your mum and I had tried
without success to have a child to love.
Our lives complete, we madly pampered you.
Your smiles and cuddles were their own reward.
As you gained height and strength devotion grew,
you were the top 'C' in our joyous chord.
We quickly sensed your special mental skills.
Your music, art, flair, creativity.
No early warning signs of future ills.
Except, in retrospect, naivety.
We watched in awe as you progressed through school.
So many well-earned prizes came your way.
You never boasted, always played it cool.
Then off to Oxford, such a special day.
You graduated with top honours, PPE.
Recruited by the spooks in MI5.
Your life became obscured by secrecy
yet from a distance we could see your career thrive.
Your visits, so infrequent, caused alarm.
The tremors, tics and twitches were a sign.
Though you retained your winning boyish charm,
we feared the start of processes malign.
We couldn't know the stress you had to bear
but spells of apathy then took their toll.
Forgetfulness, depression and despair
began to crucify your troubled soul.
The call came through one dreary New Year's Eve.
You'd tried to take your life. Thank God you failed.
The fates had granted you a kind reprieve.
We gathered round your bed, your mother wailed.
You gazed at me with dull, defeated eyes.
"They tell me I've got Huntington's," you said.
The statement didn't take me by surprise.
You wept and said, "I wish that I were dead."
"It's pretty likely you were in the know,
It's mostly passed on through a faulty gene.
If I'd been told this many years ago...
How could my loving parents be so mean?"
I breathed in deep, "it's time to put you straight.
Your mum comes from a line of carriers.
But there's been no full-blown disease of late.
So drastic action faced some barriers."
"We had the chance to kill you in the womb,
but both of us so badly wanted you.
We felt we had a lot of wriggle room,
and chose to hope you'd be a carrier, too."
"Then when your life seemed blessed with happiness
we felt it likely that our prayers were heard.
We didn't want to threaten your success,
believing that from illness you'd been spared."
"If you had found a partner we'd step in,
we couldn't leave your knowledge inchoate.
You'd have to own the tainted gene within
and choose if it was right to procreate."
My tearful wife was squeezing my left hand.
I took that as a vote of confidence.
"Dear son," I said, "I hope you understand,
and think I might have made a little sense."
Your mother said, "we did what we thought right,
we'll bear the guilt as long as we may live."
The silence hung oppresssive in the night.
You nodded, uttered simply, "I forgive."
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| Writing Prompt |
Write a poem of any type with the topic of forgiveness. |
Author Notes
PPE = a degree in Politics, Philosophy, Economics.
MI5 = British Secret Service.
spooks = spies.
inchoate = rudimentary, incomplete.
Huntington*s Disease is a progressive neurodegenerative disorder which is inherited in more than 90% of cases. It is caused by a faulty dominant gene which is always passed on to the next generation but may be expressed to a minor or major degree. When the latter, mental instability and deteriorating abnormalities of movement blight the sufferer*s life. Signs and symptoms usually begin between ages 35 and 50. It is incurable and almost always fatal. Suicide is a common, tragic outcome. Known carriers are offered genetic counselling and, if a pregnancy comes about, therapeutic abortion can be offered.
Thankfully, this is not autobiographical, but we know a family who had to deal with this in real life.
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