In quiet moments, it is still very sad. Like when contemplating what to write on this post or when writing some lines of poetry at Starbucks. I wonder what the young, chatty girls with their pumpkin lattes think when their glances fall on a middle-aged woman, sitting alone, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
Over the last couple of days, I worked on a short poem about this particular picture, taken by Gillian at their brother's college graduation in 2007, less than two years from his death.
by Sue Anderson
His eyes twinkle in two-dimensional form,
with a merry thought or private joke
or just plain teenage silliness.
Pictures capture a person's soul,
said my friend
after my son died.
Which explains the photos
all over my house.