The time of concern is over. No longer are we asked how we are doing. Never are the names of our children mentioned to us. A curtain descends. The moment has passed. Lives slip from request recall. There are exceptions . . . For most, the drama is over. The spotlight is off. Applause is silent. But, for us, the play will NEVER end. The effects on us are timeless. Say THEIR NAMES to us.

On the stages of our lives they have been both leading and supporting actors and actresses. Love does not die. Their names are written on our lives. The sounds of their voices replay within our minds. You feel they are dead. We feel they are dead and still they live. They ghostwalk our souls, beckoning in future welcome. You say they were our children. We say they are. Say THEIR NAMES to us, and say THEIR NAMES again.

It hurts to bury their memory in silence. What they were in flesh is no part of our now . . .
You say not to remind us. How little you understand we cannot forget. We would not if we could. We understand you, but feel the pain in being forced to do so. We forgive you because you cannot know. And we would forgive you anyway. We accept how you see us, but understand you see us not at all. We strive not to judge you, but we wish that you could understand . . .

We do not ask you to walk this road. The ascent is steep and the burden heavy. We walk it not by choice. We would rather walk it with them in the flesh, looking not to spirit worlds beyond. We are what we have to be. What we have lost you cannot feel . . . And we would not have you. But at least say THEIR NAMES for they are alive in me.

. . . They and their lives play light songs on my mind, sunrises and sunsets on my dreams. They are real and shadow, were and are.

Say THEIR NAMES to us and say THEIR NAMES again. They are our children and we love them . . .

Written by Don Hackett