They are here, yet not,
a trick of time that bends the light,
a shadow of who they once were,
held in the frame of who they’ve become.

I miss the golden curls,
tumbling like sunlit promises,
and the lovely notes scrawled
with mirrored letters,
each one a testament
to the wonder of learning to write.

I miss the midnight whisper,
“Warm milk, mummy,”
and the quiet sigh that followed,
as small limbs settled close,
drifting back to sleep
with the peace that only childhood knows.

I miss the child with imaginary friends,
who spoke with them as if they were real,
their world as boundless as the sky.
I ache for the one who cried
when their favourite Pokémon was sad,
big eyes glistening with empathy,
heart too tender for this world.

Where is the small musician,
violin poised, fingers tiny, determined,
drawing notes that sang of dreams?
Where are those little hands,
soft and quick to reach for mine,
trusting as morning light?

I miss the photogenic smile,
a flash of joy caught forever,
bright as a captured laugh.
I miss the child who asked
for the names of every car,
as if each one held a story
only I could tell.

And I remember the little one,
walking in front like a duckling,
“Quaré, quaré,” he’d say,
a sweet mimicry of life’s simple wonders.

Before the years stretched out
and he grew tall, an adolescent,
walking beside me through the streets
of Dublin, London, Paris, Copenhagen—
words tumbling, questions never-ending,
an endless, precious monologue
woven just for me.

They are here, and they are not.
Each version, each stage,
held in memory's embrace,
faded but warm,
echoes that tug the heart
even as new stories unfold.

I hold them all,
this son of now and the ghosts,
learning to love what is
and mourn what has passed,
grateful for the echoes
and the living symphony,
even when it means
missing what is here,
but not.