You were here; you were real.
I have to keep reminding myself.
Over and over. You were here;
you were real. It feels so strange
to know, and yet difficult to grasp.
I see your picture, my handsome son, or
that spot in the upstairs bathroom, the chemical
I can’t remove from the pedestal sink.
“I was here,” it tells me. “Don’t forget.”
Forgetting isn’t possible, but this fade…
This fade is intolerable. It makes the
sorrow hit harder when it comes, after
days of being kindly absent.
How can it be? How can it be!
You were here; you were real.
You were here; you were real.
Child of my body. Being of my blood.
My heart. My everything. And now
you’re gone and fading. Your presence
isn’t as strong upon the world you left behind,
or in dreams still connecting these planes we inhabit.
Until that curtain between sorrow and kindness falls
and you fly at me like bats from a cave
at sunset, in movies, in nature shows on television.
I open my arms and catch all of you I can, but
it’s never enough. I’m not fast enough, strong enough,
clever enough to trap so wild a being, one who
doesn’t want to be caught. You were here;
you were real. You were here;
you were real.
You were here. You were.
Weren’t you?
