Another lonely Mother’s Day

The wind is crowded with

hungry ghosts tonight.

Sitting at my kitchen table,

I warm my hands 

on a mug of hot coffee.

My eyes cut to the mantle,

to the photo, where 

your laughter was once caught

like a passing train.

Tears splash into the coffee,

steaming, teeming

with memories.

Where you once were,   

there’s barely a trace.

Oh, my son,

how I miss you.