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
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