"Good morning my son"
Sitting up in bed, legs over the side, I say,
"Good morning my son."
There's no response, none expected. I say it again,
"Good morning my son."
That routine of comforting normalcy
has graced many mornings.
It feels good to speak those words;
not always so.
It took many years to know any comfort.
His death created such turbulence and terror I doubted
my life would continue;
doubted I'd breathe with a purpose again.
I didn't always want to get out of bed
as that meant facing a reality of despair
and but a faint echo of life, mine and his.
An echo that grew dimmer and more distant
with each choking breath.
And yet, even as I protested, one breath brought me to another
and then another and another,
and somehow my life of less
became a life of something, a life of better.
Not the enchanted life, that was dead,
but because I feel my son, know my son
and remember all that is wonderous,
a life of new has returned; polishing yet to be done.
Smiles mixed with happiness,
although not yet robust, it is real.
I'm a different father, a different man.
More appreciative, more thankful,
less judgmental, less narrow,
more open, searching and accepting.
His death taught me those things.
His life taught me those things.
One slipper, another slipper,
"Good morning my son."
Sitting up in bed, legs over the side, I say,
"Good morning my son."
There's no response, none expected. I say it again,
"Good morning my son."
That routine of comforting normalcy
has graced many mornings.
It feels good to speak those words;
not always so.
It took many years to know any comfort.
His death created such turbulence and terror I doubted
my life would continue;
doubted I'd breathe with a purpose again.
I didn't always want to get out of bed
as that meant facing a reality of despair
and but a faint echo of life, mine and his.
An echo that grew dimmer and more distant
with each choking breath.
And yet, even as I protested, one breath brought me to another
and then another and another,
and somehow my life of less
became a life of something, a life of better.
Not the enchanted life, that was dead,
but because I feel my son, know my son
and remember all that is wonderous,
a life of new has returned; polishing yet to be done.
Smiles mixed with happiness,
although not yet robust, it is real.
I'm a different father, a different man.
More appreciative, more thankful,
less judgmental, less narrow,
more open, searching and accepting.
His death taught me those things.
His life taught me those things.
One slipper, another slipper,
"Good morning my son."