Patricia, Patrick, you’d be eighty today.
You were here on this Earth for only a day.
And we never met; I was just two years old,
The day you were born and then both passed away.

This year on the prairie, the winter was cold.
Now spring’s nearly here; winter’s losing its hold.
But you never saw spring, or summer, or fall,
For you never witnessed a whole year unfold.

We never saw you first roll over, or crawl,
Or stand up and walk, and then run, and grow tall.
And you never flew with our dad in his plane,
Or played with a doll or played catch with a ball.

Now, you’re in a box buried out on the plain.
My box will be bigger; there’s more to contain,
For I got to grow up before joining you,
An old man now, weary from life’s long campaign.

You were here just one day, not even for two,
No schooling to learn about all you might do.
And I’m eighty two now… Why did I survive
To live this full life which you two never knew?

Were you ever aware that you were alive?
Did you even put up a fight to survive?
Would it have been worth it to put up a fight?,
We can talk all about it, when I arrive.

Unaware when passing from dark into light,
Unaware when returning back into night,
Most get a few decades of life in between.
You got less than a day; that just isn’t right.