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All I wanted to do yesterday was hold you and hug you, Boy.
I say Boy but you are not. You are a young man but I can only see you
as a tousled blonde twerp, skinny strong, and full of beans.
I cried hard yesterday and did the unimaginable (for me.)
I asked for help and it came and it helped.
But it still wasn’t the same as seeing your face and your chin
and your ballcap hair, smelling like vanilla vape
padding around in ankle socks like a magic cat.
Whose fingers can touch the ceiling.
Who can do an oil change.
Who can pencil a landscape or lady to life.
Whose head is in the trees and grass and muddy water
at the cabin where the ATVs roam.

You are mine.
I thank the universe you’re here.
I remember the last time we hugged
(I can feel your strong body clad in
black v-neck and jeans)
and we will hug again soon.
In the meantime I will write. And cry.
And fill in the time with mindless chores,
thinking how lucky and proud I am of you.