Today

 Today, he would have been 28.

While doing some cleaning and reorganizing

I found a couple of his long-sleeved t-shirts

and held them to my face,

searching for his scent.

It was not there.

And I came across a pair of plaid shorts,

plaid like a country kitchen table cloth.

I smiled and took them from the drawer

to hang in my closet,

a tangible reminder of my grief

and life too soon gone.

Today, I'd get myself to the store

and I'd buy the cheesecake and the Pepsi

(as I did on that day).

Today, I wear my invisible badge

of grief,

invisible in that

it's not a badge everyone can see-

it is a badge that some do not want to see.

But for all who do see,

for those who speak words of kindness over me,

and sit with me,

even after all this time,

I am ever grateful.

For you who do not have to wear

this badge,

who have not been thrown unwillingly and with no gentleness

into this rough club,

whose sons and daughters still walk this earth,

I exhort you to

savor their days.

Do not take lightly the privilege of witnessing the unfolding

 of their lives,

 for there are no guarantees,

even to the young.