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.
Copyright © arno niem | Year Posted 2026
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