By Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter
The morning came, uninvited,
Breaking dreams that held you close.
Your pillow still whispers your scent—
Baby oil, baby powder,
Faint echoes of a world now gone.
The house hums with quiet care,
My son and his love,
Moving through grief like shadows.
They cook, they watch, they wait—
Afraid to ask if today
Will be the day I crumble.
The mirror reflects a stranger,
Eyes drained of their twinkle,
Lined with sleepless nights.
My heart, raw and tender,
Rests on the edge of breaking.
The church looms,
A maze of faces and flowers,
Perfumes that sting the air
And memories that choke my chest.
I reach for the quiet of a bathroom,
A sanctuary where tears
Can fall unseen.
Your casket gleams in the sunlight,
White and pure, adorned with silver.
The world continues in vivid color,
But I see only the black
Of what we’ve lost.
I press an eagle feather into your hands—
A tribute to roots we shared,
A promise carried to the beyond.
A silver coin slips into your pocket,
A toll for the journey
I cannot follow.
Your face, peaceful in stillness,
Bears no trace of our nights,
When sleep was a shared solace.
How will you rest now,
Without me to guide you?
The whispers swirl like leaves,
Their meaning lost to my ears.
My son’s hand finds mine,
A small, steady anchor.
“We have each other,” I tell him,
Though the words tremble
With the weight of farewell.
The casket closes,
A door I cannot reopen.
Yet love remains,
Threaded through the ache,
Binding us beyond time.
Until we meet again, my love,
In a place where pain dissolves
And hearts are whole.
Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter 