THE ONES WHO BURIED THEIR OWN.
Say a prayer for fathers who had to bury their sons,
Hands that taught how to tie laces now lowering caskets,
Shoulders that once lifted boys to see parades
Now shaking under the weight of earth and silence.
Teach them how to breathe again
When the house is too loud with absence.
A chant for mothers who mourn those who would stand beside their graves,
Wombs that carried, hearts that carried more,
Now counting anniversaries with candles that won’t be blown.
May the night not swallow them whole,
May morning find them with strength enough
To make tea for one less cup.
Picture the empty chair at Sunday dinner,
The shoes by the door that won’t walk again,
The laughter caught mid-air like dust in sunlight.
Grief doesn’t ask permission.
It moves in, hangs coats, and stays.
So we learn to set one more plate for memory.
For the fathers who practiced firmness but broke in the car,
Who drive past the field and grip the wheel tighter,
Who tell stories just to hear the name out loud.
May God be near to the brokenhearted,
And may the ground they walk feel less like a grave
And more like ground that still holds them up.
For the mothers who fold clothes that won’t be worn,
Who see his face in every young man on the street,
Who pray with tears because words have run dry.
Let dew find their windows in the morning.
Let a stranger’s kindness be manna.
Let them know their love did not die with him.
So we say a prayer, and we raise a chant,
Not to end the pain, but to carry it together.
For every son gone too soon,
For every father’s bowed head,
For every mother’s vigil by the window —
May we be the ones who stand beside their graves,
Until they can stand again.
(In memory of Trust orhirhi, d sherrif of warri).
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