Some days, I am filled with melancholy. It is the curse of being Italian. We feel things. Deeply.
The days are filled with lasts. Reminders that the time is growing near. There are but a few brief months left to his senior year. August will be here before I know it and he will be gone, on his way to begin a journey I must watch from afar.
He is ready.
In the middle of the night I struggle to remember the little boy that was. When darkness blankets the house and the silence grips me, the tears come.
I wish I had written down the poetry.