Stuck in the Moment

There’s no laughter anymore.
Not in this house.  Not in 4 years.
Faded squares line the walls and there are no dirty soccer shoes by the back door.
Instead they’re in a box in the shed though she gave the bike and [most of] his clothes to the city mission.  
His picture sits alone atop the piano he whined about playing.
His room is now the craft room though on the east wall hangs a shelf.
Momma calls it her memory shelf but whenever I dare to look that way I swear it’s a shrine.
He would have been 17 this year but tragedy keeps him forever 13.
She clutches the tattered blanket he hadn’t used in years and weeps when Kenny Chesney comes on the radio.
I moved out 14 months ago.
I miss him too, Momma, but I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t live here.
I can’t be here anymore.
Especially when I can still feel him in the halls because you won't let him go.