Writing the Handbook

I always meant to write you a poem.
This morning I read:
If today was the last day of your life
what would you have wanted to do with it?

I want to write a poem for you.
My son, my baby, youngest of three
and born at the wrong time I thought
having buried your brother
the year before.

But timing is never wrong Jordan,
my Jo. Jo-Jo that you’re too
old for, and makes you cringe.
You came along at just the right moment.

The right moment to share in my grief and loss,
the right moment to share in my addiction,
the right moment to share in my healing,
the right moment to help me learn to feel.

Jordan, my Jo. Jo-Jo.
Life so incomprehensible to your outlook
that people just be nice, and fair.
I wish, my love, for you that they had been.

People are people, and as you grew
seeing all the misery of others sickness
carrying it for them
bullies, addicts and the soul-destroyed
you kept on smiling. My beautiful son.

Always generous, even when hungry for so much yourself.
How do you survive in a world so different to your own inner view?
You know you are loved.
Even though I don’t have all the skills to show it, yet.


(c) Liz Willows 2000