I still hope you walk in on Friday
It's been three months today.
I counted them without meaning to -
days turning into quiet weeks
since cancer took you away.
You were 47,
but to me you were larger than that.
Not just a nephew-
more like a second father,
a voice that always knew
how to steady the room.
I'm only 16,
and I thought people like you
were supposed to stay longer.
I still expect your laugh
to come from the other room.
Still expect your messages,
your random advice,
your way of making heavy things
feel lighter.
Cancer is such a small word
for something that takes a whole person with it.
Three months ago
the world kept moving-
cars, school, conversations-
but something in my chest
stayed behind with you.
Sometimes I'm angry.
Sometimes just tired.
And sometimes I just sit there
wondering how someone
so strong
could disappear so quietly.
But I carry pieces of you
in the way I think,
the things you taught me,
the jokes only we understood.
So even if you're gone
from the chair you used to sit in
every Friday,
from the voice I used to hear-
you're still here
in the spaces you changed inside me.
Three months without you
feels impossible.
But I'm still walking forward...
with your name
somewhere in my heart
every single day.
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