Three years ago
you drew your last breath.
I can still hear it,
a slow fading away on that last day,
an event unexpected,
years too early and yet
that, as it turned out,
was not the end.
I talk to you, nearly every day,
and I hear your voice
in every decision worth making.
To this day, any wisdom I own,
a whisper in my ear,
you still live.
About this poem.
My mom died three years ago. I miss her, but I expected to be far more lonely without her than I am.
The picture was taken quite a few years ago, My kids are 18 and 23 now, but this is how I remember her. Probably how I will always remember her.
It’s true. Those we love stay with us. I am living it.