Warren (Nov 30, 1966-Jan 8, 2017)
Sometimes he is a brother, funny, caring and teasing; standing too close, spraying me with spit as he talks in excitement and enthusiasm; planning mischief with me when no one else is paying attention; quiet and thoughtful when seriousness is needed.
Sometimes he is a crush, gentle, sweet, and safe. I never have to fear the sting of a slap from his hand on my face or cruel words spit from his mouth on my heart. He is one of the very few people who can rub my back or hug me with no warning or permission.
Sometimes he is my best friend, trusting, thoughtful, and loyal. He opens his himself to me, letting me see inside, letting me give comfort and support. He knows me so well, he grabs my hand when he knows I am scared or sad or hurting, reassuring me that it will be OK.
Always he is family, eternal, irreplaceable, beloved; to my son an uncle, father, and friend; a part of my mind, my heart, and my soul. His voice, his face, his smiles, his laughter, his hugs live in my memory like photos in an giant scrap book, even though I already feel his absence.
This is what it feels like when someone tugs the rug from beneath your feet, except there is no floor to land on, only an endless tumble through a bottomless black pit.
This is what it feels like when you wake up from a deep sleep, but find you are stuck in a bad dream that seems to have no end and no way out.
This is what it feels like when a mountain crumbles into an endless abyss; when a tree falls, exposing roots, leaving a raw hole in the soft soil.
Worst of all, this is how it feels when a heart breaks, and you don’t know if you can ever find all the pieces to try to put them back together.
May this be to allow your poetry to form motion however poetic or otherwise it may be
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