There are days,
my son,
when I want to ring
in a ghost,
hear your laughter,
see your smile,
and your voice which
I miss the most,
but can't find
no such place,
so will have to
make do
with the memory
and photos
of your face.
There are times,
my son,
when it seems
a huge chunk of my life
has been snatched away
with your death,
leaving a large hole
where winds of darkness
echo through,
and all seems to
suck me down
like a big black hole;
I feel less,
not whole.
There are moments,
my son,
when I feel you near,
placing a hand
through the ether
of the two worlds
to meet mine
or a whisper in my heart
of your voice's love
and concern.
There are days,
my son,
when I wish to ring
in that ghost,
have you back
for a time
or for ever,
but maybe sometime,
and never to say never.