Came from the sudden death of a young teen close to me,
I was only twelve, he was merely thirteen,
I used to spend the night, the routine was nearly weekly.
Lived on the same block, used to hang under the old oak tree,
We laughed and played all day, basketball and street hockey,
So much life to live, nothing could have predicted this catastrophe,
To think about it today, I can hardly bear the potentiality.
His mother was a doctor, she worked with newborn babies,
A devil in disguise, hid behind a mask of false safety,
Not even a teen, but I could still understand the irony,
Her self righteous evil turned her son's life to a memory.
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I am a twenty-one-year-old college student. I grew up in a suburb of St. Paul, Minnesota on a quiet, residential street. Stephen was stabbed to death in 2002. The murderer was his mother, a doctor. I was twelve, and Stephen and I had just celebrated his thirteenth birthday with a sleepover. Stephen was a great and talented kid. He was quiet, yet full of life. He was intelligent and gifted yet unassuming. There was nothing he couldn't do well. He was my friend. This poem is dedicated to the life that should have been.