On getting Old

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

I know more dead people now than live ones,
they visit me in dreams
and never get older.
Like my five year old son who,
clutching a Donald Duck plastic toy,
asked me if he was going up to Jesus
when he died.

holding on to a fading hope,
I said: ‘Yes my boy but not just yet’!
While he was serene
I tried my best not to cry.
‘If you’re in heaven,
dear boy, can’t you tell me now?’
He calmly smiles and vanishes.