Your Living Marked My Heart

Do others think of you the way I do, the embryo that grew beneath my heart? There is so little proof you lived . . . a metal marker on a grave, a lighter, a wallet that they gave . . . two certificates, official, like parentheses - beginning, end. I sometimes see your friends . . . on those days, you seem alive in little ways. Do others think of you the way I do, the boy who grew into a man, unspoken dreams, unfinished plans. There is so little proof you lived . . . some childhood books and art, and yet . . . how deeply marked your living carved my heart. © March 5, 2014, Faye Lanham Gibson