Sometimes

Sometimes, during class, or late at night, or any time at all,
I imagine that you aren't dead. That you're still alive. That my life is still the same
just ten times better because you're still in it.

You've made your son a better person - or, rather, you're in the process.
You and Mom, though you do fight occasionally, are still happy together.
And you're proud of me and what I've accomplished so far.

You tell me, though, that you still sometimes wish for the past to come back
when I was your little girl and never thought about leaving you.

But you left me first. And I know it would have happened eventually - that chances are, no matter how much time I got with you, it would never be enough.

But why did you have to be taken away when I needed you so much?