|
|
What words can I use? My son, my friend. Gone. Ripped from our lived in an instant of tragedy, leaving a stunned emptiness. Everywhere I turn I find another hole that was quietly filled by you. That was noisily filled by you. Your popping corn growing on the kitchen window sill (They’re still growing. Mum has been watering them, and they’re almost too big for the cup now) Your shoes on the lounge room floor. We miss you. Now I understand what they mean when they say “a parent should never have to bury a child”. It sucks. BIG time. |
