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I miss being held

especially when I cry

or have had a frustrating day.

I miss his long arms, once so

strong, and his hands, now trembling

and uncertain, clenched,

that could rub my back until

I fell asleep, content and safe.

The shape of him is still here

but the essence is fading

with each hour, each day.

When he cries

it is I who must extend my arms

like wings to comfort

and enfold him, in some semblance

of longtime love and loyalty.


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