Love and the ability to trust are imprinting early on in our upbringing, as is our predilections for certain experiences, reinventing the same pattern, over and over again, to subconsciously draw new blood and finally know real healing. How many of us are wounded by early childhood losses? In my lifetime, I’ve known a few who lost their mothers too early. This original poem is dedicated to them.
My Youngest Was Six
My youngest was six when I died.
I recall little of that time
Just the essence of a karmic love.
He lights a memory candle every year
Forty six flames of mourning for my death.
My youngest was six when I died.
His father taught him best
Of love and trust and being a Mensch.
I weep for his anguished heart
That does not trust love since my death.
My youngest was six when I died.
I watched him from that other place
Until they called me back.
He still clings to fear and hope
Like a child abandoned
Not realizing that I am beyond my death.
My youngest was just six when I died.
To this day, he hides from love.
Image via Edvard Munch
Tinamarie is an occasional poet and writer for several acclaimed websites. You can find her at twitter and Facebook, or send her a private message at modernlovemuse @ yahoo dot com.
©2010-2011 www.TinamarieBernard.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article.
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