The Place
Remembers your hands
In the turned soil, the creased pages
The teacup left just so on the counter
Grief here is not loud
It is the creak of a door you once touched …
The Place
Holds your laughter in the walls
Not echo, but residue
Like how a tree remembers spring
Through it now stands bare
We walk through it, careful not to forget …
The Place
Speaks in your language
A photograph tilted
A coat still hanging as though time stilled its breath
Even the light bends the way you used to
When you leaned into a story …
The Place
No longer waits
It has folded you gently
Into its grain, its breath, its silence
And yet
Every corner aches like a closed book mid-sentence …
.
.
.
.
Just a few days ago, my best friend’s husband passed away, so suddenly, from heart failure. There was no warning, no long illness to prepare the heart for what was to come. One moment he was part of the constant wave of their lives, and the next, a stillness settled in that no one knew how to hold. Their home feels unbearably silent now, not just in sound, but in spirit. Every corner dictates his absence. The people left behind are trying to carry on, but their movements are slower, their eyes heavier. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t shout, it whispers, lingers, and reshapes everything …
I’ve been thinking a lot about how fragile life really is. We plan, we dream, we hope, and yet so much is out of our control. I can only pray that my best friend finds strength in her memories and comfort in the love that surrounds her now …
Roksana Tales 