A Wonder or How I Am Always Connected to My History - a poem about childhood trauma

It's a wonder
is it not? When one
finds a way through tragedy
to take strides to go on,
but not to move on,
for moving on is out of reach.
It is a wonder
that loss of child would not cause
a muteness in the forward steps
but time halted not for them
as it does not halt for anyone.

That wonder,
that compels the life of all the others
to beat begrudgingly as they go on
never losing the loss far from
themselves. It is
a wonder, that they can be excelling
as much, as they do, how the mother
could raise boys into men,
who struggle with trauma on shoulders
but not at the expense of loved
ones around them. How
loss causes such self-searching
for a seven year old, for a three year old,
how internal questions are asked
of them far before they
would normally be ready.

Wonder how animals
feel when a cub is lost
to wildfire, wills of gods
and all that existential drama?
Though it causes wonder,
it is not the final thought,
for the children had to grow
and express themselves,
found words to be opportune
to govern their thoughts,
had each other for awhile,
had to grow up, as grown ups do.
Wonder if creativity would have
sprouted in unhindered minds,
ones that didn't have to contemplate
mortality of babes when they
were babes themselves?

Is the creativity fostered because of tragedy,
or is the tragedy just a bystander on their
journey, and a picking up of a pen
inevitable? Do the children
bottle up what they don't understand,
things like crib death, and child caskets,
and grieving parents?

Do they keep it hidden in compartments,
dresser drawers full of mothers tears,
and fathers fury, do they wonder
why it hurts so much not to hear
baby cries? When they are men
do they understand better the value of life,
are they better for having been near deaths
grasps? Certainly minds are damaged,
brain is overly concentrated with pain,
and wondering, it is
a wonder after all to ponder,
to grant eyes into 20/20 retrospection,
and to be curious how much
a babes brain can carry, when
they still are rusty at walking,
and truth be told, and told
from experience, a lot
a lot is held on babies brains,

so keep them safe, for they
are small universes full of possibility,
and are always paying attention,
Yes, wonder, a wonder
to think I am a grown shape
of a three year old's experience
with tragedy.