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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The quiet in the house is a different kind of quiet now. Not the hush of sleep, or the stillness before a game. It’s a heavy blanket, smothering the corners where her laughter used to bloom, where her humming filled the kitchen like a warm, familiar song. Austin Kyle, the older one, tries to be the man. His small shoulders squared, his brow furrowed as he makes toast, a little too burnt, but he offers it to Mikel Luis with a forced, “She always made it like this.” His voice cracks on the last word, a tiny fault line in his brave facade. Mikel Luis, all of five years, still waits by the window. He whispers to the empty pathway, “Mama will come soon.” He clutches the worn teddy bear she stitched up after Buster chewed its ear, its familiar scent the only tangible piece of her left in his small world. Bedtime is a battlefield of unshed tears. No story tonight, no gentle tucking in, no kiss on the forehead that smelled of vanilla and warmth. Austin Kyle reads from a book she loved, his voice trembling, skipping the parts where mothers hug their sons. They eat cereal for dinner again. Mikel Luis says it’s what grown-ups do when they’re busy. Mikel Luis just pushes the soggy Os around his bowl, his eyes fixed on the framed photo on the mantelpiece – her smiling face, forever young, forever out of reach. Sometimes, in the dead of night, a small sob escapes ML's room. Austin, pretending to be asleep in his own bed, holds his breath, a mirror of the silent ache in his own chest. They are two small boats adrift on a vast, unforgiving sea, their anchor gone, their compass broken, navigating a world suddenly too big, too cold, too quiet, without the steady light of their mother to guide them home. ©bfa050425
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