This first person I thought about sharing this poem with was my son, Jack. He wrote so many poems and songs. I've spent much of the past few weeks picking up the phone to text message or call him.

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market -
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it; no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

"Perfection Wasted" is taken from John Updike's Collected Poems 1953-
1993

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Comment by Robert Tinsley on May 16, 2009 at 5:21pm
ive lost four children in the past 24 months and even though i have a new baby almost here i feel the most horrible pain , the loss that i would never be ready for i will never be the same person again ,people tell me that i should be healing by now but im not and know in my heart that i will never be able to be that person again i miss them all so badly it seems that i block it out at times because ican not hold the pain and i mean that litteraly they were each so special and each one was different you know i need to download the stories to my page from the newspapers but i cant look at them they are my worst reality (they are really gone)son,daughter does it really matter?love is the most painful emotion i have maybe soon i will be able to download the pictures and story but not yet
Comment by Diana, Grief Recovery Coach on February 6, 2009 at 6:51am
Wow, love this poem. And it is so true. NO ONE can replace Jack.
I never understand when people say: They can have another child - You can never replace the person you lost. Each and Every person is unique. Never can they be replaced.
Thanks for sharing this poem.

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