The Wells

A letter came, so cold and dry,
Bringing tears, a bitter cry,
From the grandma who never tried,
To reach out to a child’s tired eyes.

A will, a piece of paper white,
Hiding shadows in the light,
Words that cut like sharpened blades,
A ploy to make us feel betrayed.

It said she knew, she must have known,
That we were out there, all alone,
Yet blame she laid on us, so small,
As if children could breach that wall.

But what she didn't see or feel,
Were the wounds that may never heal,
The pain of loss, the fear and doubt,
A young heart struggling to work things out.

So fragile still in tender years,
Our father gone, the well of tears,
And yet she chose to turn away,
As if we were the ones to blame.

But in the end, we will endure,
And our love will always stay pure,
For those we lost, and for ourselves,
As we find strength in pain-filled wells.

We'll rise above the blame and strife,
And keep on living a full life,
For we know now that love transcends,
All those wounds that never mend.