There’s a picture of you in the nightstand by my bed.
It was “the best one” my mom had said.
To me, it’s something you see in a bad dream.
One you wake up from and can’t help but scream.
I sometimes think of the life I’ve lived since you went away.
What would you think of some of the choices I’ve made?
Would you be proud of the man I’ve become?
Still pleased that I’m your son?
When you left I lost my best friend, my shoulder on which to lean, the one from whose knowledge I would glean.
One thing I still desire as your son, is to know that I’m seen.