Looking out the window

For Jenny

The small boy stands looking out the window
into the grey street on a grey day.
I sit in the room behind him, drinking tea.

He thinks, 'Bad mummy, naughty mummy'
He says 'Daddy, daddy, where are you?
'Daddy, daddy, come back.'
His voice is so plaintive, so poignant.
His words hang softly in the still grey air.

I think, grief has no age boundary,
tears are falling everywhere
down young smooth cheeks and wrinkled faces
I think, grief and confusion, stumbling in dim-lit labyrinths
I think, it's as if the pain is part of the process
and unavoidable
I say softly, 'I don't understand anything.'
My mind goes click, click, registering images.

But I know about loving, I know what feels good and warm and right
and I know about laughter and dancing
even through tears
in spite of
maybe stronger because of

I know about looking through the window and seeing the colours change