Krisolver - Hello Poetry

I didn’t cry that day. Not the way a mother should when the world splits open. I think shock is a strange kind of mercy; it stiffens your spine, sets your jaw, keeps you breathing when breath should fail. I stayed upright because everyone else needed a place to lean. There were details to decide, hands to hold, people who needed me to nod, to listen, to steady their shaking when mine hadn’t started yet. I wrote his obituary. I wrote his sermon. Two poems because one wasn’t enough to carry the weight of a boy I made, a man I loved. I arranged flowers, Photos and words; pieces of a life while mine quietly fractured beneath my feet. I didn’t cry that week. Not really. A tear here and there, but nothing close to the storm inside me. Shock held the dam in place, like I was made of stone, like grief had missed me when really it was crouched in the corner, waiting. But now, God, now, I cry every day. The dam has burst. I cry in the mornings, in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet, in the noise, in the space where his voice should be. I don’t understand how I kept myself together outside his house, waiting to be let in, knowing he was gone and still standing, still breathing, still whole enough to function. I don’t understand how shock made me steel when I needed to be water. All I know is this: the tears I couldn’t shed then have found me now. And they come like truth, like confession, like the body finally remembering what the mind tried to forget. I didn’t cry that day. But now; every day is that day, and the tears finally know their way out.

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Nov 19, 2025

Nov 19, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC

Krisolver

I didn't cry that day

I didn’t cry that day. Not the way a mother should when the world splits open. I think shock is a strange kind of mercy; it stiffens your spine, sets your jaw, keeps you breathing when breath should fail. I stayed upright because everyone else needed a place to lean. There were details to decide, hands to hold, people who needed me to nod, to listen, to steady their shaking when mine hadn’t started yet. I wrote his obituary. I wrote his sermon. Two poems because one wasn’t enough to carry the weight of a boy I made, a man I loved. I arranged flowers, Photos and words; pieces of a life while mine quietly fractured beneath my feet. I didn’t cry that week. Not really. A tear here and there, but nothing close to the storm inside me. Shock held the dam in place, like I was made of stone, like grief had missed me when really it was crouched in the corner, waiting. But now, God, now, I cry every day. The dam has burst. I cry in the mornings, in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet, in the noise, in the space where his voice should be. I don’t understand how I kept myself together outside his house, waiting to be let in, knowing he was gone and still standing, still breathing, still whole enough to function. I don’t understand how shock made me steel when I needed to be water. All I know is this: the tears I couldn’t shed then have found me now. And they come like truth, like confession, like the body finally remembering what the mind tried to forget. I didn’t cry that day. But now; every day is that day, and the tears finally know their way out.

64

Today I clicked a box to change a number beside my name; just a small digital ritual, a quiet acknowledgement that I am still moving forward. Forty-six. Another year added, another round of candles waiting, another reminder that life keeps happening even when I’m too tired to notice. And it hit me, how many of these days I’ve had, how many I’ll keep having, birthdays stacked like pages in a book I never meant to keep writing. But my son… his story stopped mid-sentence. His number froze in place while mine keeps ticking upward, marking time he no longer gets. He doesn’t age anymore. No cake. No candles. No jokes about getting older. No groaning about “another **** birthday.” Just a date on the calendar that comes and goes, and leaves the world unchanged; except inside me. I age, but he does not. I move, but he is still. I celebrate because life demands it, but part of me whispers that I would trade every birthday left for one more of his. So today is my birthday; another year lived with the ache of his absence, another reminder that growing older isn’t promised, it’s a privilege. And I carry that truth with me like a quiet flame, burning for both of us.

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Nov 16, 2025

Nov 16, 2025 at 10:55 PM UTC

Krisolver

Birthday

Today I clicked a box to change a number beside my name; just a small digital ritual, a quiet acknowledgement that I am still moving forward. Forty-six. Another year added, another round of candles waiting, another reminder that life keeps happening even when I’m too tired to notice. And it hit me, how many of these days I’ve had, how many I’ll keep having, birthdays stacked like pages in a book I never meant to keep writing. But my son… his story stopped mid-sentence. His number froze in place while mine keeps ticking upward, marking time he no longer gets. He doesn’t age anymore. No cake. No candles. No jokes about getting older. No groaning about “another **** birthday.” Just a date on the calendar that comes and goes, and leaves the world unchanged; except inside me. I age, but he does not. I move, but he is still. I celebrate because life demands it, but part of me whispers that I would trade every birthday left for one more of his. So today is my birthday; another year lived with the ache of his absence, another reminder that growing older isn’t promised, it’s a privilege. And I carry that truth with me like a quiet flame, burning for both of us.

48

The world grew quiet when you left, As if even time held its breath. The sky seemed dimmer, stars withdrew; A piece of it went home with you. Your smile, a spark that warmed the room, Now flickers soft within our gloom. Your laughter still runs down the halls Like echoes dancing off the walls. You were a father, brother, son - A light, a soul, a rising sun. You loved with open arms and eyes, Like your heart was made of wide blue skies. Your children ask where you have gone, And all I have are words, not strong. But in their smiles, your light still stays, And in their steps, you guide their ways. Your granddad waits with arms out wide, Two kindred hearts now side by side. And though our grief is deep, profound, Your love is still what holds us down. We now walk with hollowed hearts, missing pieces, broken parts. But through the sorrow, we will find the gift you left: the love that binds. You are gone, not lost, not far. You shine in who we truly are. In each life that we walk through, we'll share the love we learned from you.

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Nov 2, 2025

Nov 2, 2025 at 10:57 PM UTC

Krisolver

The Light He Left Behind

The world grew quiet when you left, As if even time held its breath. The sky seemed dimmer, stars withdrew; A piece of it went home with you. Your smile, a spark that warmed the room, Now flickers soft within our gloom. Your laughter still runs down the halls Like echoes dancing off the walls. You were a father, brother, son - A light, a soul, a rising sun. You loved with open arms and eyes, Like your heart was made of wide blue skies. Your children ask where you have gone, And all I have are words, not strong. But in their smiles, your light still stays, And in their steps, you guide their ways. Your granddad waits with arms out wide, Two kindred hearts now side by side. And though our grief is deep, profound, Your love is still what holds us down. We now walk with hollowed hearts, missing pieces, broken parts. But through the sorrow, we will find the gift you left: the love that binds. You are gone, not lost, not far. You shine in who we truly are. In each life that we walk through, we'll share the love we learned from you.

28

There is a silence in me now Where your laughter used to live, A quiet that does not heal, Only echoes. You were my beginning; The first heartbeat I carried outside my own, The first name I whispered into the dark Like a prayer, like a promise. Now I am an open room, Walls standing but emptied out, Windows that look backward, Doors that don’t lead anywhere. I walk through my days Wearing your name like a bruise, Your absence a second skin That no one else can see. They say time will soften this, That grief will reshape itself. But I don’t want soft. I want you. I want the way you said “Mom” Like it meant everything. I want the weight of your hug, The way you lit up a room just by being in it. I am still your mother, But the world no longer knows How much of me you held How much you still do. And so I carry this hollow, Not as weakness, But as the shape of love That had no choice But to break.

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Nov 2, 2025

Nov 2, 2025 at 10:56 PM UTC

Krisolver

THE HOLLOW

There is a silence in me now Where your laughter used to live, A quiet that does not heal, Only echoes. You were my beginning; The first heartbeat I carried outside my own, The first name I whispered into the dark Like a prayer, like a promise. Now I am an open room, Walls standing but emptied out, Windows that look backward, Doors that don’t lead anywhere. I walk through my days Wearing your name like a bruise, Your absence a second skin That no one else can see. They say time will soften this, That grief will reshape itself. But I don’t want soft. I want you. I want the way you said “Mom” Like it meant everything. I want the weight of your hug, The way you lit up a room just by being in it. I am still your mother, But the world no longer knows How much of me you held How much you still do. And so I carry this hollow, Not as weakness, But as the shape of love That had no choice But to break.

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