We demand of others
what we have no right to ask,
And perhaps that is what makes them
love us.
You reached out to me,
And it was painful, hurtful,
left me angry,
Yet somehow touched my heart.
As I view your son years later,
I remember what you said to me
on that cold winter day four years ago:
“I don’t want my son to know.”
There is a pureness and sweetness
to this young man,
And I understand your urgency.
There is sadness in the air
as we stand together at your grave.
Steps fall in silent rhythm
as feet shuffle through the passageways of time.
I think of you,
of warm and tender moments
spent wrapped in your arms.
I remember your smile and your laugh,
a sweet boy who offered love and peace:
It was the ‘70s and we were young.
“Life is much more like a river
than a book,” I read for your
eulogy,
And deeply weep.
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