The depression began when my grandmother died.
She died at exactly three am (the same hour
in which I write this poem). Three am has
since become my sort of witching hour, magical.
I remember being ten years old and
rolling over in bed just when my little alarm
clock turned the hour and being told three days
later that she had died at three am that night.
It was like she was saying goodbye.
My grandmother and I shared a bond that
I feel was reflected by tiny moments of
happenstance from the moment I was born.
I was born on July 3rd, her half birthday.
It was also the day she was diagnosed.
I wake up at three am almost every night
now and if I do sleep through the entire night
I feel like I missed something.  

Hers was the first funeral I’d ever been to.
I remember disappearing for a while, in
between the service and the grave site,
when lunch was served, I wasn’t hungry.
My grandma didn’t go to church so I
find it strange that her funeral was held
in such a large one, it was a complex of
chapels and offices I admit I got a little lost.
I found myself in the balcony off the main
chapel, it was lovely with picture windows.
Down at the front there was a priest and
a couple with their baby. The baby was being
baptized, no fuss, no fanfare. Just loveliness.
The baby cried and so did I, for I was wondering
Was it the same God reasonable for both events?

That’s always been my problem to many
big questions needing answering.
I’d go to four more family members funerals
Before I was fourteen and with each one
The sadness grew stronger, I had more
questions and even fewer answers.
That's never really changed but now
I know that I may never get my answers.
I say sadness, but depression has
nothing to do with being sad really.
We all go in and out of sadness
but some of us like to hold it to long.
I know now that it's only my old paint
under the new and I'll keep it that way.
I guess the reason I never went through
with it is because I felt I didn’t have a
good enough reason, how sick is that.
The survivors of really tragedy have every
right to be angry, to be sad, and yet…
That’s one of my questions should I meet God:
How can people you’ve hurt so badly
love you so much?