It’s not the dying—

it’s the leaving.

 

Torn

from the tender weave of days,

cut from the cloth mid-pattern.

consigned

to the stillness of memory,

memories fading

like breath on glass.

 

Robbed of—

the full span with the love of my life,

whose heart overflows with quiet giving.

My husband’s strong arms so sustaining

Nourisher of the garden of our life

A lifetime of holding me

Robbed of

the gentle exhale after years of sacrifice,

the time we earned—

to rest, to simply be,

side by side,

hands still clasped.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

the soft golden years

to delight in our children,

not in the tending, but the witnessing—

The blossoming of adulthood

watching them rise into themselves,

watching them love and be loved.

Time to hold them close,

to say everything slowly.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

the laughter and wonder

with grandchildren journeys

Stories unheard,

hugs not given,

names not learned—

never to be known.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

Time to extend the weave

the long-threaded bonds

From parents who gave their all

with those who’ve known me since before memory—

The family of my birth

now with families of their own.

Siblings who grew into

beloved companions of my heart,

the ones who speak my past

in a language only we understand.

So many holidays shared,

so many left to come—

now vanished.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

the joys of gathering

with those who became mine

through love and vows—

my beloved family by marriage,

to witness generations unfolding,

to see new bonds blossom,

to live the stories and seasons

in that widening circle of kin.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

Future long, slow conversations

And sharing

with a friend of many seasons,

laughter laced with memory,

wisdom shared across the miles,

grief and joy passed gently between us.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

Future fellowship of friends in faith,

with whom I wandered the wide, sacred questions.

Who held space in silence,

who showed grace without asking

Hearts to giving hands

their kindness, a prayer.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

Robbed of—

the songs still blooming in my chest,

the unwritten verses,

poems aching to be born

from the marrow of me.

 

The joy of having it at all

 

It’s not the dying—

It’s what’s being left behind.

 

And still—

To have had all this—

such love, such wonder—

So thankful

to have lived a life so full,

To have been rich in family

So blessed

Leaving you

is the only reason

Leaving hurts so much.

Originally written: 3/29 – 3/31/2026