His Last Spring

Two bowls set,

one remains untouched, growing cold.

The chopsticks rest where his hands once were,

but he’s not seated where he would be.

The candle flickers at the altar,

smoke rising in spirals,

carrying prayers to ancestors

who now hold him in their arms.

His ration card sleeps in a drawer nearby,

still waiting for a meal he’ll never eat,

saved for a boy consumed by the world.

Throughout the night,

her cries shake the ground,

her voice so frail even the strangers bow their heads.

She reaches out to him,

her sweet boy,

She smooths his uniform, folded with care

the rising sun on his sleeve,

yet he never rose again.

She presses her cheek to the fabric,

inhaling the ghost of him—

gunpowder, sweat, childhood.

The letter said he’d died bravely,

as if those words could ever bring her comfort.

How she wished she could be there,

holding her boy as he slipped away,

Watching the cherry blossoms fall one by one,

like silent soldiers,

as he remains trapped as a child in a grown-up’s game