Grieving Mother

The small shoes sit by the door, dust motes dancing where tiny feet once shuffled, eager for cartoons, for scraped knees, for my hand. Her drawings still cling to the refrigerator, crayon suns forever smiling, stick figure families always holding hands. Mine feels so empty now. The silence screams her absence, a hollow echo in rooms that once vibrated with laughter, with endless questions, with life. He tries to be strong, her father, but I see the tremor in his hands as he tucks the boys in, a ritual she started, a warmth now chilled by a vacant space beside him. Her kids, too young to fully grasp, ask when Mama will be back to play. Their innocent inquiries twist the knife deeper, reminding me of the forever "not yet." The big C, they called it, a monster that stole the brightest star from our small constellation. It burrowed, it multiplied, it devoured, and left behind this unbearable weight. I rock her favorite doll, a worn-out bunny, its fur still carrying her sweet scent, a ghost of lavender and little girl. Tears blur its fuzzy face, each drop a silent scream, a mother's heart shattered beyond repair, a love that has nowhere to go, but out into the aching air. ©bfa050425