When I look at your photograph,
my son, there beside my bed,
the one of you in dark suit
and glasses, dressed as
a Blues Brother for the work's
Christmas party gig, I have
to smile, yet at the same time
hold back the tears, as days
become weeks and weeks
become months and months
years, since your untimely death
soon after. Silent now the jubilation,
rare the celebration, low key if
at all the laughter. The only
photograph where you're not
smiling, where you stare back
in fixed unsmiling mode, as if
you had some inner clue or
foresight of your fate one month
ahead when you would be no
longer here, but dead.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
When I look at your photograph,
my son, there beside my bed,
the one of you in dark suit
and glasses, dressed as
a Blues Brother for the work's
Christmas party gig, I have
to smile, yet at the same time
hold back the tears, as days
become weeks and weeks
become months and months
years, since your untimely death
soon after. Silent now the jubilation,
rare the celebration, low key if
at all the laughter. The only
photograph where you're not
smiling, where you stare back
in fixed unsmiling mode, as if
you had some inner clue or
foresight of your fate one month
ahead when you would be no
longer here, but dead.
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