En Strengen av Perler: The Hidey-Hole

In 1994 I lost my son Irvin. He was eight. He went into a diabetic coma, which was not diagnosed until it was too late to save him. I was not with him when he died. Recently divorced, I was unwelcome in my former wife's house. Initially I blamed Amy for Irvin's death, but I don't any more; now I blame God. I figure the Almighty's shoulders are broad and strong enough to hold my resentment. And sometimes I blame myself a little bit. Those are bad moments. Thankfully, they come less and less as time lengthens. I don't know if that's a good sign, or a bad sign.
There's nothing more I want to write about it. I scribbled this poem soon after the event:

Your photographs end all abruptly, too soon.

Where did you go? (Perhaps off to the moon?)

Why did you go? Did I do something wrong?

Did I say crabby words, or not sing you a song?

Come back to me, son -- I won't holler again;

I won't say you're naughty and count up to ten.

Stop hiding yourself, this is no sort of fun;

come out, little Irvin, come out precious son!

But you won't, or you can't, and I'm left all adrift

while the days turn to ashes, unraveling swift. 

Your hidey-hole someday I'll find out for sure,

and never believe that harsh Death has no cure.