The Quiet After You Left

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"I didn’t know the word for you.
I just knew something was wrong
because the house sounded different
after you died."

The quiet came after you left.

Like someone turned down the sound.

I didn’t know the word for it then,

just that the air felt wrong somehow.


The house used to hum a little tune,

with you in it, puttering around.

Now the hum was gone, replaced

by hushed tones and careful steps.


The grown-ups talked in low voices,

like secrets they didn’t want me to know.

They said your name sometimes,

then stopped, like catching something forbidden.


They told me to be good,

and goodness felt like the most important job

I ever had. A shield, maybe,

against the sadness leaking everywhere.


I was good at being good.

I folded my little pajamas neat,

smoothed out all the wrinkles.

I ate the peas, even the ones I hated.


I swallowed the lump in my throat,

held back the tears that threatened.

Their faces were already fragile,

like thin glass ready to shatter.

I didn’t want to cause more damage.


At school, the sun streamed in.

I knew the answer, hand shot up.

But the words got lost, tangled

in the space between my head and mouth.


The teacher’s smile was kind,

but it didn’t help untangle them.

My chest felt tight, like a balloon

filled too full, ready to burst.


My stomach ached sometimes,

a dull, persistent ache.

My head pounded, a heavy drumbeat.

“You’re fine,” they said. “Just a little bug.”


At night, in the darkness,

I strained to hear your footsteps.

I knew you wouldn’t be there,

but hope is a stubborn thing.


I counted the glow-in-the-dark stars

stuck on my ceiling, one by one.

Hoping sleep would come, a gentle hand

to pull me into dreamless quiet.

Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t.


I left your things untouched,

your sweater hanging on the chair,

your book open on the nightstand.

If nothing moved,

maybe time hadn’t moved either.

Maybe you’d be back to claim them.


People told me I was brave,

a strong little soldier.

But I didn’t feel brave,

just numb, and very, very quiet.


I learned a hard lesson early:

that missing someone isn't just sad,

it’s heavy. Heavier than them

even when they were still here.

It’s a weight that settles deep inside,

a constant pull downwards.


And I am still carrying that weight,

a silent companion.

I learned to walk with it,

to breathe with it, to live with it.

I just grew around it,

let it become part of me.

But the quiet,

the quiet is always there.

And I still don't know the word for you,

except maybe gone.

And that word is much too small.


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