The days arrive like strangers now,
Unfamiliar in their quiet tread.
I reach for patterns he once knew,
But they unravel in my head.
TV waits, the remote untouched,
His cat still by the bedroom door.
I try to move, to mend, to grow,
But I’m not who I was before.
The world insists on turning still,
On blooming, breaking, bending,
Yet I remain a shadowed shape,
A story without ending.
I speak to him in silent rooms,
In echoes of his laugh,
But change feels like betrayal here,
A cruel and foreign path.
And every time I try to change,
I feel the loss and then,
Moving forward always means
Letting go of Dad again.
