DEATH Poem: To the son He never had, by Eliza Stone

I cannot imagine how different your father would be,
Or if he would have met me,
or if you would have had addiction difficulties.
Or truly how God decides to make the call for miscarriages

I’m not mother material,
But I like to think I would’ve been,
If I could’ve met you
I never met your mother, but she didn’t meet your dad
Not the way I had, this man

I never had the privilege of meeting you
And I suppose It’s not my right to
When your dad couldn’t meet his son,
But I love him, and already love you.
And I’m sorry I won’t have the right to.

I wonder then, if your soul will show
In my own son, or hers, or some stranger’s
Or perhaps it exists as the five-year-old It should be,
in a world I’ll never know

So we pray for her, sometimes, and I wonder if that’s weird
Then wonder if she prays too, for your half-brothers, for you
Or if her husband kisses her tummy
Or misses you
The way I don’t have the right to.