memory

eight years gone, my son
you seem so young
and I feel
so old

the pain is no longer acute
(it once felt terminal)
still, I welcome the pain
because it reminds me
that I am alive
reminds me
that I have loved
been loved
still choose love

I sometimes wish
there was someplace
to go
pilgrimage to make
place to seek
grave to mark
but then I remember
that my remembrance
is that place
portable as I am
held in my heart