Haunted

I am haunted not by ghosts, 

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.