'Dead at Seventeen': a poem with a message
The day I died was an ordinary school day. How I wish I had taken the bus!
But I was too cool for the bus. I remember how I wheedled the car out of Mom.
"Special favor," I pleaded. "All the kids drive." When the 2:50 p.m. bell rang, I threw my books in the locker ... free until tomorrow morning! I ran to the parking lot, excited at the thought of driving a car and being my own boss.
It doesn't matter how the accident happened. I was goofing off — going too fast, taking crazy chances. But I was enjoying my freedom and having fun. The last thing I remember was passing an old lady who seemed to be going awfully slow.
I heard a crash and felt a terrific jolt. Glass and steel flew everywhere. My whole body seemed to be turning inside out. I heard myself scream.
Suddenly, I awakened. It was very quiet. A police officer was standing over me.
I saw a doctor. My body was mangled. I was saturated with blood. Pieces of jagged glass were sticking out all over. Strange that I couldn't feel anything.
Hey, don't pull that sheet over my head. I can't be dead. I'm only 17. I've got a date tonight. I'm supposed to have a wonderful life ahead of me. I haven't lived yet. I can't be dead.
Later I was placed in a drawer. My folks came to identify me. Why did they have to see me like this? Why did I have to look at Mom's eyes when she faced the most terrible ordeal of her life? Dad suddenly looked very old.
He told the man in charge, "Yes, he's our son."
The funeral was weird. I saw all my relatives and friends walk toward the casket.
They looked at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen. Some of my buddies were crying. A few of the girls touched my hand and sobbed as they walked by.
Please somebody — wake me up! Get me out of here. I can't bear to see Mom and Dad in such pain. My grandparents are so weak from grief they can barely walk. My brother and sister are like zombies. They move like robots.
In a daze. Everybody. No one can believe this, I can't believe it, either.
Please, don't bury me! I'm not dead! I have a lot of living to do! I want to laugh and run again. I want to sing and dance. Please don't put me in the ground! I promise if you give me just one more chance, God, I'll be the most careful driver in the whole world. All I want is one more chance. Please God, I'm only 17.
— John Berrio, Author
Editor's note: This poem was submitted with the following note. Foster's Daily Democrat believes it speaks with such truth and passion during this prom and graduation season that it is today's guest editorial.
"This morning when I woke up I immediately thought of the late Edna Berrio, formerly of Rochester. Edna was the widow of John Berrio, the author of the poem, Dead at Seventeen. According to Edna, it was John's wish to save as many young driver's lives as possible. I can't explain why I suddenly thought of Edna or this poem, but I do know the message is as timely today as it was when John wrote it many years ago."
— Sandra Constantine, Rochester