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.