THE WEEK AFTER

THE WEEK AFTER

by Dreamy Poetess

I just saw your cup on the table’s edge,

still has its water, a quiet pledge.

Your pillow still guards the old chair,

as if you’d rise and find me there.

The days blur thin; October’s close,

Your breath went soft, the room's light froze.

I touched your hand. It wasn’t warm.

The silence took its final form.

They said you’d fought, you’d borne the pain,

That faith would wash what time can’t drain.

But faith feels small in the evening rain,

And I am lost. Your name remains.

I fold the clothes you used to wear,

Pretend you’re napping somewhere there.

Your scent still clings to threads of white,

A ghost that hums through every night.

On November fourth, we let you rest,

Beneath the sky you always blessed.

And though they say you’ve found release,

My heart won’t learn that kind of peace.

I talk to air, to stars, to dust,

To the quiet where I place my trust.

Mama, if love could build a stair,

I’d climb it just to find you there.

(In loving memory of my mother, who bravely fought Sarcoma.)

Images, generated through Google Gemini.