The kids still say your name
like you’re in the next room.
“Mom would know where it is.”
“Mom used to do it like this.”
“Mom makes the pancakes better.”
I don’t correct the grammar.
I let makes stay in the present
because it hurts them less
than the truth.
I try.
God, I try.
I braid our daughter’s hair
with hands meant for fixing fences
and tying knots in rope.
It comes out crooked
and she smiles anyway,
like she’s helping me pretend.
Our son asks questions
I don’t have answers for.
“Why did Mom get so sad?”
“Did she know we loved her?”
“Is she coming back someday?”
I tell him she loved him
more than anything in the world.
That part is easy.
The rest of the words
sit in my throat
like stones.
At night they crawl into my bed
like they used to crawl into yours—
small, warm bodies
looking for a kind of safety
I’m still learning how to build.
You were better at it.
You remembered the lunches,
the lost shoes,
the quiet tears before school.
You could calm storms
with one hand on their backs.
I am louder weather.
I burn the toast.
I forget picture day.
I stand in the hallway sometimes
watching them sleep
and wonder if they can tell
how much of the house was you.
They miss you
in a hundred small ways.
And I do my best
to fill the spaces you left—
but every day I learn again
that love is not the same
as being you.
Still, tomorrow morning
I’ll try the pancakes again.
For them.
For you.
Mar 15
Mar 15, 2026 at 5:25 PM UTC
The kids still say your name
like you’re in the next room.
“Mom would know where it is.”
“Mom used to do it like this.”
“Mom makes the pancakes better.”
I don’t correct the grammar.
I let makes stay in the present
because it hurts them less
than the truth.
I try.
God, I try.
I braid our daughter’s hair
with hands meant for fixing fences
and tying knots in rope.
It comes out crooked
and she smiles anyway,
like she’s helping me pretend.
Our son asks questions
I don’t have answers for.
“Why did Mom get so sad?”
“Did she know we loved her?”
“Is she coming back someday?”
I tell him she loved him
more than anything in the world.
That part is easy.
The rest of the words
sit in my throat
like stones.
At night they crawl into my bed
like they used to crawl into yours—
small, warm bodies
looking for a kind of safety
I’m still learning how to build.
You were better at it.
You remembered the lunches,
the lost shoes,
the quiet tears before school.
You could calm storms
with one hand on their backs.
I am louder weather.
I burn the toast.
I forget picture day.
I stand in the hallway sometimes
watching them sleep
and wonder if they can tell
how much of the house was you.
They miss you
in a hundred small ways.
And I do my best
to fill the spaces you left—
but every day I learn again
that love is not the same
as being you.
Still, tomorrow morning
I’ll try the pancakes again.
For them.
For you.
