We’re only here for a breath.
Some breathe longer than others, of course; like octogenarians shuffling to hit a hundred years.
Others, very little. They gasp -we gasp- and our only son is gone. Our only daughter is still. Our only grandchild grows forever cold.
What do we do when our child is gone? -When we’ll hold them and no longer feel the rising-falling-softness of life against our neck?
What can we do -those of us still breathing?
©2022 Chel Owens
Dedicated to my good friend who just lost her ‘baby,’ her sixteen-year-old son, unexpectedly. I don’t know what happened but my heart aches for her loss.