When My Future Son Cries
When my future son says,
"But I don’t want to find someone else,
I want to be with her,"
and his eyes carry the weight of a thousand broken stars,
I will see my own reflection in the tremor of his voice,
a younger version of me,
clutching at the ruins of a vanished embrace.
I will sit beside him,
silent, like a tree rooted in the storm,
and I will not say,
"You’ll move on,"
or,
"Time will heal."
For I know the sharpness of that lie,
how it cuts like a blade dipped in salt.
Instead, I will tell him,
"Son, there are loves
that refuse to fade,
that grow like wildflowers in the cracks of our soul,
even as we try to forget their names."
And when his tears fall,
I will let them,
for they are rivers that carry grief to the sea.
And I will remember—
the nights I spoke her name to the moon,
the mornings I awoke to her absence,
the ache that time could only make quieter,
not smaller.
He will ask,
"What do I do now?"
And I will not have the answer,
only this truth:
"Carry her gently, my son.
She will live in the corners of your heart,
like a song you hum without knowing why.
And when the world tells you to forget,
don’t.
She is part of who you are."
I will watch him weep,
and in his tears, I will see mine—
a lineage of love and loss,
passed from father to son,
like an heirloom
no one asks for,
but everyone learns to cherish.
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