A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I never doubted that I was loved, 
but perhaps I doubted that it was unconditional.
You always said you were so proud of me, 
and I believed you and built my life
around not jeopardising your good opinion of me. 
You used to tell everyone
how proud you were,
and now they tell me
how proud you’d be now,
and I wonder if you are.  I wonder
what you see from where you are,
what knowledge and wisdom you have
that were unattainable here. 
I can only imagine your judgement.
I think, if you were still here, you would
indeed be proud, because of my outward signs
of strength, resilience, achievement, even virtue.
And still, as ever, I would hide from you my darknesses.
You’d see the tattoos and piercing, liking neither, 
but more concerned for pragmatics and professionalism
than really your own tastes. 
And still I’d hide my truths beneath layers of shame.
And this grief has more layers than even the shame. 
I miss you, but I’m pragmatic about death,
and you’re in a better place, but I’d like a hug, 
and sometimes words of advice, 
and yet I know I would not have made this
progress in your presence.