Trace

Poems of Loss, Love and Light.

It’s for your birthday, 
but I might still add to it...
I don’t think it’s finished yet

And you handed me
a plastic bag
Inside, a painting
still wet in places

Confused, I asked 
which way it went
so, smiling, you
turned it around

You see in the corner?
Up there
that’s the sun

Now I sometimes trace
those acrylic contours 
imagining that your fingers
did the same

And I ache 
to think of all you’re missing
years you won’t live
things you could have done

It wasn’t just the painting... 
darling, there was a whole life 
still left to be finished

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On one of his last trips home my son, Dom, arrived bearing a plastic bag from which he produced a heavy wooden panel. I think he’d found it outside a house in his street. He was a great believer in recycling things which would otherwise end up being thrown away.

As he handed it to me I realised that he’d used the panel as a canvas for a painting. I was still a little confused however, as it was upside down. But once he turned it I could see the swirling mass of colours which represented the sky, mountains and rivers, with a huge sun presiding over them all.

He’d been painting it in time for my birthday; the photo at the top of this post shows it resting on the easel in his room in London. Clearly there’d been a rush to get it finished for this visit, hence the reason why some of the paint hadn’t yet dried. After he left I found traces of it on the coat I’d been wearing.

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Memories our child left behind. They can make us happy, or they can make us feel so sad. And sometimes they do both.

I treasure my son’s painting. It now lives on the chest of drawers in my bedroom, and I smile as I look at it every day. Something which he produced, just for me, with his own hands…I don’t imagine I need to explain to any parent (bereaved or otherwise) why it feels so special.

And yet, in darker moments, I’ve ended up holding it, sobbing. Remembering Dom’s cheeky smile as he presented it to me. At other times I’ve closed my eyes, tracing the raised acrylic lines of paint, imagining I can somehow find him there again.

A close-up…layer upon layer of paint

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I’m at a stage in my grief of regularly sifting through memories. Metaphorically holding them, touching the pain-points, wondering whether they contain enough happiness to offset the inevitable sadness they can evoke.

And, gradually, I’m getting some agency back. Now, more often than not, I’m finding it easier to filter out the tragic nature of this loss, choosing instead to nurture precious memories and use them to maintain a joyful connection to my son. Because I don’t want that to end. Otherwise I know I’ll lose him all over again.

I’ll never forget Dom pointing to the sun he painted, so boldly, in the corner of his picture and that’s why, whenever it’s sunny, I always wave upwards and say ‘Hi Son’. I love that this feels like a private joke between us. But it’s also a helpful reminder that turning towards the light is how I’m choosing to look for him now.

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Unless otherwise stated, every word in this post is my own. No form of AI was used to produce it as I believe in the importance of lived experience and authentic expression.

My aim in all my writing is to share my journey in ways which help other parents navigating child loss feel less alone. Posts are free…but if you wish to show support, I always appreciate new subscribers and any sharing of my work. The buttons are below, thank you.

Stories from other bereaved parents can be found in Tears, Tools and Treasure. And if you would like to share your own story here, you are warmly welcomed to DM me.