The Silent Guitar

In the still of night,

jumbled thoughts 
toss and turn

inside my head.

Sleep eludes me

as I lie in silence,

staring at the ceiling.

Are you awake? 

His voice comes to me

from his pillow.

He knows I am. 

Yes, I whisper.

Why? He asks.

The answer hangs 

between us in the dark.

There is an empty bed 

across the hall.

The guitar stands silent 

against the wall.

Are you homesick? He asks.

I shake my head,

afraid my voice

will betray these 

fragile feelings

so close to 

the surface of my heart.

I turn my head to the wall.

I am heartsick, I realize,

missing my son so far away.

His bed is empty 

across the hall.

His guitar stands silent 

against the wall.

Do you think he's awake? He asks.

Hot tears roll 
across my cheek,

and soak into 
my pillow.

You should call him, he says.

I don't want him 

to hear me cry, I say,

but messages travel 

through the night

to my boy so far away, 

now more man than child.

In the quiet of the night, 

my phone vibrates.

I walk down the hall and

past his room, 

where the lone guitar

stands sentinel 

by an empty bed.

I miss you, I whisper 

in the dark, 

smiling through my tears.

I can't wait to hear 

you play your guitar again.

I'll see you in just 

a couple weeks, he says.

I love you, Shrink, 

he whispers in the dark.

I love you, too.

There was a time long ago

when we two were awake 

in the middle of the night,

in a rocking chair 
by an empty crib,

as I gentled him to sleep 

with whispers of love

and gentle lullabies.

His soft breath warm 
against my neck.

Who needs soothing 

in the night now?

Who needs reassuring 

words and sweet songs?

Soon he'll gracefully strum 

the strings of his guitar,

and untangle this 

knotted ache in my heart.

Until then,

His bed is empty 

across the hall.

His guitar stands silent 

against the wall.