Her Absence is the Only Silence I Hear
When my mother took her final breath,
something inside me forgot how to breathe. She left this world, and I've never fully returned to it. The day her heart fell silent, mine began breaking — unendlessly, without pause. When her eyes closed for the last time, mine opened to a waking nightmare that I'm incapable of escaping from.
Living without her is not living — it is dying,
slowly, cruelly, breath-by-breath. She died once, but I die in fragments — every time I remember she's not coming back. To the world, only one soul vanished, but in losing her I lost the remaining threads between myself and living.
As she exhaled her last breath, I lost the
ability to catch mine. Her absence is not quiet — it is a scream stitched into every second, swelling louder the harder I try to turn away, until even a blasphemous silence rings so loud it becomes deafening. Though her body is gone, my soul fissured alongside hers, torn into a grief no time will ever mend.
I walk through this life hollowed. Haunted.
Not living; not dead. Just waiting for the moment I can finally follow her into the dark and come home.
(August 31st, 2025)
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