My Son, He’s Gone

I long to touch your skin, squeeze your hand, ruffle your hair;
To watch you tumble and chase that silly old mutt again. I do.

So tiny, your eyes held mine so still, so still,
And I knew your empty bucket I could always fill.

I sigh now as I watch that purple cloud in the sky and wonder
My Son, where exactly is it that you are?

Can you send down your celestial sign next to the tall weeping willow
That you can still giggle and take a nap on your worn-out pillow?

I don’t feel good about your silence
And think it is a bit defiant.

I would forget my pain instantly and it will be forever cured
If you whisper something, whistle a melody, or hum our tune.

I clasp pictures of you at four and sob because you are no more.
I hold no hope your departure will ever bless the center of my core.

A God? I think not. Not my God!
It was not godly in the least that you were ripped from my life.

Was it your God? Will He give you back to walk with me on this soil?
Of course not; not even to quiet this raging, brutal turmoil.

Comfort? None. How could there be?
Who is sufficient enough to take your place-- not He.

I need you Son to tell me the critical factual
Because your absence is sad and so unnatural.

I read your messages over and over and ponder.
Was I not enough reason for you to delay your atmospheric saunter?

Oh, tell me Son, did you think of us after you chose your destiny
But before you soared away in your omnipresence?

If I had known, I would have stopped time and we would have dined.
I would never let you resign because you are mine; one of a kind.

I am oh so very broken and anguished; no ointment is designed
To release from me that incessable torturing vice -- my mind.

This is not how it is supposed to be.
I told you many times, “Son, first I will go out to sea.”

I am not alone but alone would be better than this unkind chaos.
I remember birthdays; Halloween masks; and yards of first-aid gauze.

How many times I looked for your missing shoe I could never count.
Discovery of the kicked-off smelly thing, made your smile paramount.
I wish you could come home. You can’t.
I wish I could come visit you. I can’t.

So, this is how it will be?
Forever? No change? No change.

Without you I am someone, but not me.
I thought it would always be us together my Son – we.

I would have saved you had you reached beyond imaginary locks.
Now we would be fishing instead of starring at this ugly burial box.

What do I do? Where do I go? Who is there to talk to?
Nothing. Nowhere. No one.

Without even a warning my fragile being abrogated into my abysses.
Slithers remain that I do not want to pick up; yet it is all there is.

How do I go on?
I will continue the same as before, but already it is Herculean.

Why do I go on?
I must because never my Son – never! – will I let the rest of you die.

I will make sure everyone knows you the same as if you were here.
And the people will some day say, “Your Son? He’s not gone.”

Still, I miss you Son, even when my memories laugh. I do.
It can never be the same but your spirit will guide me through.

My son. My son. My son.
Is here. Is here. Is here!

Dedicated to the life of Nathan Dodd, son of Larry Dodd and Loretta Sullivan Dodd, who passed on -- way, way too soon.

© Coninc., TheDownsideUp.Com 2009