Trisha, although my son is alive, my grieving for him has taken another turn. It's been a process, grieving for the loss of him being around, grieving for the loss of his children, grieving for the loss of all the things about him that were so special, his warm smile, his kind ways, his hugs and maybe most of all his sense of humour.
I was cleaning out some old stuff in my computer the other night, and I came across some poems I had written a long time ago, and this was one of them. I am usually very private about my writing and poems, but I think I'd like to share this one.
He stands alone in the dim unlit street, waiting for the angel of life - or death - to deliver his release.
Knowing that soon Nirvana will be his and peace will enshroud him.
He is poor, dirty, tired - a ragged person who has lost all hope of recovering his once treasured dream.
Despair, pain and too many memories will soon be replaced by calm, power and drug induced serenity, if only for a brief period before depression and disgust set in once again.
He is a living, feeling person, not unlike you and me.
He is my son - God help him.
__________________ Live your joy,
Go against the grain.
Don’t be made timid by worried rejection.
Let nature’s curious wisdom fill you.
Let the world’s mystical heritage guide you.
Paint your canvasses,
play your tunes.