Wise Child Poem by John F. McCullagh

When they called the role next morning
His was among the missing names.
So many of the Bravest
had perished in the flames.

That firefighters’ widow
Had special reason to be sad:
The baby she was carrying
might never know his Dad.

New Yorkers mourned the fallen,
even as they fought the flames.
The embers of September
would not cool for many days.


In May of the year following
She took her little one
to his Father's graveside
to show his namesake son.

She wept for love remembered
And vowed to do her part
to see this child, who bore his name,
.would know her hero’s heart

True, there would be no pictures
On the refrigerator door
Of Dad and son together
wrestling on the floor.

No photo at the little league-
He would miss his boy’s home run.
No Father -son catch in the yard
when the long work day’s done.

The boy would learn about his Dad
From her two older sons-
From photos in a album-
From Dad’s fire fighter chums.

There were stories she could tell him,
and some that she could not.
The tears that come at midnight
He could better do without.

Primarily he would meet him
in the rituals of the tribe.
There’s communion in the Pasta
There’s a silent sense of pride.

To never know a Father’s kiss
Or feel his warm embrace.
To carry on his father’s name
Yet not meet face to face.

That is the wise child’s burden-
To do the best he can.
Assemble the Mosaic
And finally know the man.



(Story of a 9/11 fire fighter who died in the towers, and his son who was born posthumously.)