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The Love I Lost

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The Love I Lost

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My wish is to give peace, comfort, and hope to those on earth grieving the loss of a loved one.
(1)

10/23/2026

People keep waiting for the old me to come back.

She isn’t coming. The one who lost you is a different person, and the world around her looks different too. Same streets, same faces. A piece of the map is missing, and I’m still working out how to get anywhere without it.

It isn’t that I won’t be okay. It’s that I’m relearning how to exist with a piece of me gone.

What’s the empty space you feel the most?

10/22/2026

I’d tell you how much I need you. I’d say it plainly, without dressing it up.

Then I’d tell you how hard it’s been. Every single day. I think I’ve been working so hard at holding it together that I never got to say it to you.

So I’m saying it to the lake instead. I think it heard me.

10/22/2026

She’s looking down, not out. I know why.

Looking out means the future, and the future has a space in it where you used to be. Looking down is smaller. It’s just this flower, this ground, this minute.

I’m trying to believe the words on this page. Some days love does make today beautiful. Other days it just makes it bearable, and I’ve learned not to argue with either.

10/22/2026

When it comes in like a wave, I’ve learned there’s nothing to do but let it.

I shut my eyes. Sometimes I get a glimpse of a face, a laugh, the shape of a hand. It never stays long enough.

But it’s enough to get me through the next hour.

10/22/2026

I said good morning to the empty room again today.

Out loud, like it was nothing. Then I waited. Even now, some part of me leaves a gap for your answer.

The window is dark. The lamps are low. The reply never comes, and every time it doesn’t, it lands as if it were the first.

What do you still catch yourself reaching for?

10/22/2026

Somebody sent me this today, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’m not there yet.

Accepting the past without regret sounds like a person who didn’t have one more thing to say. I have a hundred. The rain doesn’t mind. I’m sitting in it, and the umbrella is the only thing holding.

Maybe confidence comes later. Today I’m just keeping dry enough to stay.

10/22/2026

Not a single day, Dad. Not one.

It happens in the middle of nothing. Washing a cup, waiting for a light to change. You just surface, the way you always do, and I carry on.

I still feel about six years old when I miss you. Small, in a big field, holding on to whatever’s left.

10/22/2026

Losing you hurt. I expected that.

What I didn’t expect was the learning. How to do ordinary Tuesdays. How to sign my name on forms and not think of you. How to be in a room where nobody knows.

I’m still learning. The grass in this picture leans the same way I do.

What do you still catch yourself reaching for?

10/22/2026

Your chair is still under the tree.

The blanket is on the back of it. The leaves keep landing on the arms, and I keep brushing them off, as if you’ll be back any minute and want it clear.

I have all the memories. Every one of them is warm. None of them can sit down.

Who used to fill the quiet in your house?

10/22/2026

Dad, you taught me how to stand up straight when things went wrong.

I’m trying. I’m just not strong enough for this one.

I look down this road and it goes on without a single car. I can’t say the words “no longer here” and mean them yet. I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can.

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New York, NY

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