Amid the fireworks,your little
hand slipped into crowded adulthood,
before your mind developed a sense of direction.
Grasping anything to garner comfort, but
fear is a poor companion.
Absence begged me to give up on you . . . but, what mother can?
I attempted a missing person’s report, but was
laughed out of the station.
“He’s finding himself, ma’am”. The experts scoffed, even as my
happy-boy flyers faded amid other bulletin board lost souls.
The exhausted search now buried . . .
And I hold tight to my Daddy’s hand,
so I don’t lose myself in the crushing mob of grief.