The weight, my son.

Your weight on my arm, my son, was uplifting.
The weight on my heart now, my son, is crushing sometimes.
Your tug on my hand to play, my son, was energizing.
Pulling myself through each day without you, my son, is draining.
Your uplifted gaze to me, my son, was entrancing.
My glance at an empty room, my son, is a dull painting.
Your laughter in my ears, my son, was music beyond the orchestras of this world.
The silence now, my son, is discordance in my world.
I look ahead, my son, to be weighed down, tugged, looked at, and laughed with.
That will surely be heaven, my son.