a little poem for my Tuesday morning

I'm in the publishing mood.... I wrote this poem a few months ago about one of my best friends, Jesse, who died when we were little (3rd grade). Sort of written from the perspective of my third grade self.

Our third grade
Jesse, do you have hair now, or will you be bald forever?
Do you sit on God's lap and sing
I am Jesus Little Lamb
like I imagine?

Jesse, I remember swinging through the tanbark playground,
pretending we were knights.
I was Ivanhoe and you were Wamba the jester, sometimes King Richard,
the lion-hearted.
My pet was a mountain lion, and yours was an octopus, 
which you put on our heads to make us squeal.

Then you came to school on crutches, bundled in layers in a California
fall. Jesse, do you still need blankets in heaven or does God
keep it just the right temperature?

I always knew you were closer to heaven than us,
none of my other friends were bald.
Your blue eyes grew deeper and darker, like a turtle shrinking
into its shell, and your skin
became white and clear with purple spaghetti veins.
Jesse's going to be with Jesus soon,
Mama told me, over
and over, but I knew. 
We both knew, Jesse and I. 
I am Jesus Little Lamb 
he sang, bundled on the couch on his last 
good day. Little lamb. 

That night the phone rang and mama answered, but I already 
knew. Hallelujah.
But mama just sat at the table and cried over her papers, rubbing
her eyes underneath her glasses.
Mama, don't cry. You are the one
who told me not to cry when it happened. 
I thought this was what we wanted. I thought 
we wanted Jesse to be with Jesus.
Why are you crying?

Jesse, I tried to cry like everyone else. I hope you won't be mad at me 
when I tell you I couldn't find any
tears to give you. 
Even though we'd never play the 
make-Mitchell-smell-Jesse's-tuna-sandwich game 
again, I was happy
because you were happy, little lamb.

Sometimes I imagine your invisible octopus friend is sitting on my head, and I 
think that in heaven, you are playing our games with the angels.