The seed

The seed

The seed

I was nine almost ten,
sitting on my mother’s bed,
talking,
and I listened also to what she had to say.

Her hair black,
skin white,
she looked tired and worn
though she was only 37.

“He only lived three day’s”,
they had to force his birth,
knowing that death would be the outcome,
the little one would die.

They tried to save his life,
three months premature back then was often fatal,
he struggled,
tired and simply stopped.

In one so young,
not seeing my brother,
the affect at first was not apparent,
it was just something that happened.

The years rolled by,
then slowly
the fruit of what my mother told me blossomed,
for the seed took deep root in my then young soul.

His name was Michael,
I miss him,
at times there is an ache I don’t understand,
a wondering of,“what if”’.

In my soul there is something missing,
like a room barely lived in,
vacated,
the presence lingers growing stronger as the years pass by.

Bitter sweet in it sting,
it rises and falls as if it has its own life,
gently seeking my attention;
is such a thing possible?

A small suffering,
really nothing at all,
yet it persists,
how strong will it grow and mature?

Does mourning grow,
or was it always there?
Hiding until I was ready,
for what….. communication?

Oh Michael,
will I ever see you?