but by the weight of a body
that used to be Velcro-d to me,
my shadow, my constant—
and then for three months
barely touched me,
as if he was already practicing leaving.
By thinking I had more time.
By how quickly that time
was stripped away,
how three months could feel so long
and still nowhere near enough.
By watching him decline—
slow enough to break me daily,
fast enough to leave me stunned.
By not sleeping for months,
listening for breaths,
counting seconds in the dark.
I am haunted by the way he breathed
on that last day—
every rise a question,
every fall a warning
I didn’t want to hear.
By the red dot that stayed still.
By the way he couldn’t play,
and the way my heart sank
because I knew what that meant
before I was ready to admit it.
By the appointment I made
with shaking hands and voice,
putting a time on goodbye,
choosing a day to end a love
that never once chose to leave me.
By having to walk out the door
to go to a meeting while he was dying,
the world asking me to be professional
while my soul stayed home
on the floor with him.
By the prayer I cried in the car on the way home,
pleading with Heavenly Father—
please don’t make me do this, please—
and listing everything I loved about my boy
like it might tip the scales,
like love might buy us mercy.
By the ivy.
By the way he laid down in it,
the way I reached for him,
said his name, and felt the moment
his breath stopped answering me.
By picking up his limp body,
holding him while the words fell out of me—
“oh, bubba”—
as if saying it enough
could bring him back inside himself.
By bringing him home
one last time.
By seeing my dad cry more and harder
than I have ever seen him cry,
grief breaking through
places I thought were unbreakable.
By placing my baby in the ground.
By the silence afterward.
By only having Vivien with me that night,
learning how loud loneliness can be
when love has nowhere to go.
By being told a week later
that Vivien may have cancer too—
as if grief wasn’t done with me,
as if it needed to prove
it could still take more.
I am haunted by the thought
that I could have been better,
that I should have known more,
done more, seen it sooner.
By the quiet voice that asks
what if I missed something,
what if loving harder
could have saved him—
even when everyone tells me
I was the best dog mom,
even when I know
I gave him everything I had,
the doubt still lingers,
soft but relentless,
loving him the only way I know how—
by hurting.
I am haunted by the dreams I had for him—
him in my wedding photos,
somehow knowing it mattered,
standing close like he always did.
By the picture of him playing with my kids,
woven into a life
he was supposed to be part of.
He was meant to be there.
And by the way I wake up
every day
and pretend everything is okay.
By the way I move through my life
carrying all of this quietly,
smiling when I’m expected to,
functioning while haunted.
I am haunted
because I loved completely.
Because he mattered.
Because he was my boy.
And love like that doesn’t leave—
it stays,
even when the body doesn’t.
Now I look for faint rainbows,
the kind most people don’t see.
Not the arched promises
painted loud across the sky,
but a soft place in the clouds,
a barely-there shimmer—
a quiet spot of color
he sends just for me.
I don’t point it out.
I don’t need proof.
I just stand there, breathing,
beautifully haunted
by the memories of him—
letting myself believe
that love can still find me,
that somehow,
he does too.
