There are mornings I still reach for you
before the world fully wakes,
before reality settles heavy on my chest
like a stone I cannot move.
I still hear your laughter
in quiet places.
Still see your smile
in crowds that are not you.
And for one fragile second,
my heart forgets
that heaven took you home.
People say time softens grief,
but they do not understand
what it means
to bury your own child.
Time does not heal this wound.
It only teaches a parent
how to carry unbearable pain
while pretending to survive.
A piece of my heart went with you
the day you left this earth.
Not borrowed.
Not broken for a moment.
Gone forever.
There are birthdays
that arrive too quietly now.
Holidays that feel incomplete.
Empty chairs that speak louder
than any words ever could.
I grieve the life you should have lived.
The years we were supposed to share.
The conversations we never got to have.
The future that disappeared
without warning.
And yet,
through all the sorrow,
my love for you remains untouched.
Death could not take that.
It could not silence your memory
or erase the mark you left on my soul.
So I carry you with me
in every sunrise,
every tear,
every whispered prayer at night.
Because a parent never stops loving their child.
Not after loss.
Not after goodbye.
Not even after death.
And until the day I see you again,
I will live with this ache—
this deep, eternal longing—
for one more moment with you.
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