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Christmas, You, 1992
by Judith Witherow

The pain won't
spill out in
carefully crafted
I can't tell you
how it feels
to always be
just one breath
away from a sob.
Your pictures
are everywhere.
I put them there.
Every part of me
that was put here
by you aches with
the knowledge of
your sudden leaving.
No, I don't think that
you're  much better off
now that you are
no longer suffering.
I also know that I don't
want to tell the truth.
I just want you back
my precious madre.


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