Sometimes
I play a finger
along the cheek
of your face
in the photo of you,
my son,
imagining it's real
and you are here,
my dear.

Sometimes I think
I see you,
go along the passage
as you used to do
before your death;
but there's no one there
when I look again,
just the pain.

Sometimes I feel
your finger running
down my spine
with a gentle touch,
as if you say:
I'm here, just a little
out of reach,
out of your sight,
but I'm all right.

Sometimes I feel
a tightening of my throat,
at the mentioning
of your name,
or tears well up
in my eyes,
or I choke up
when it dawns
on me
you're no longer
here beside me,
or if you are,
I cannot see.

Sometimes
I feel a hole
in my heart,
and the blood of grief
seeps through;
miss you, son;
no more
I can say or do.

-terry Collett