If grief was a child

 

If grief was a child, I'd find him standing

by my bed at night.

I'd sense him breathing, even

with my eyes shut good and tight.

He'd prod me softly and whisper "Mommy"

in the darkness, cold and black...

then climb in next to me and poke

his knees into my back.

 

If grief was a child, I'd hear his cry

in the quiet dawn of day,

and see his prints on the window, even though

I'd wiped them all away.

He'd slip on his shoes and wait by the door,

patiently tapping his feet,

then ride along to the bank and the store,

watching me from the back seat.

 

If grief was a child, I’d see his smile

on faces everywhere.

I’d look away and rub my eyes,

but he would still be there.

He'd leave his toys around the house,

knowing I can't scold him,

then reach for me to pick him up

as if I could still hold him.