—a poem for the granddaughter never met, but deeply mourned—
By Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter
I never touched your tiny hands,
Nor kissed your little cheeks goodnight.
But still you found a home within
The quiet chambers of my light.
They called you Sweets—how perfect, dear—
A name that wrapped you up in grace.
I saw you only through the eyes
Of those who held your sacred place.
Three years—so brief, yet you had time
To bloom like Spring, then fade away.
With heart repaired by borrowed sparks,
You danced beneath the light of day.
A child with strength no words can hold,
With laughter stitched through every seam—
And though I never heard your voice,
You visit often in my dreams.
I grieve you like a hush that stays
Long after all the music ends.
A granddaughter not met by arms,
But met in memory that bends.
I watched from far, too far to show
The tears that fell, the prayers I sent.
I stayed behind—not out of lack,
But care for hearts too torn, too spent.
For grief can twist the kindest words,
And love can wear a stranger’s face.
I chose to honor, not intrude—
To leave my footsteps out of place.
Still, guilt it lingers, like a mist,
For roads not taken, hugs not shared.
Yet I was there, though not in pews—
In every breath, I truly cared.
To Sweets, you left before your time,
Before this world could know your spark.
Yet heaven holds your tiny light
While here, we carry all the dark.
There are no words for loss this vast,
No name for pain so wide, so raw.
Only the ache of those who stay,
And mourn the joy they never saw.
But I will keep your name alive,
In whispered thoughts and quiet days.
You were my granddaughter, still—
Forever loved in silent ways.
Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter 