|To his mom he'll always be like this - four. To me he is 28 and my friend|
It's been eleven years and a bunch of weeks
Since I lost the son who had at last,
Become my friend in the days before he died,
All that father/son stuff finally gotten past.
Grief's a different thing observed inside
The griever; not at all what you expected.
Time does soften it a bit, but does not
Wash it all away and clean; the pain rejected.
Not a day goes by I do not think his name or find
Some trace, some thing about which he used to care
His drawings, journals in a box, a picture lying 'round the house
His drawings, even the old shirt of his I sometimes wear.
In his mother's mind he's always four years old.
To me he's twenty-eight, six-four, and just become my friend
It's different how we each remember him, but we do.
He's alive inside our grief with us, a pause but not an end.
Micah wondered once if someone would remember him
If he were gone, I think he sensed his time was brief.
I could tell him now that he is remembered every day,
With joy, pride and love, and even still a little grief.
© 2017 by Tom King