Someone in Heaven Misses You

“Do you know,” I whisper to myself, “someone in heaven misses you.”

“Is that really love?” you might ask.

And I would answer: “It is. The purest love of all.”

When you are alone, when the house is silent and only your heartbeat echoes in your mind, thoughts come rushing in. They do not knock; they burst through the door.

Plans. Dreams. Regrets. Conversations you never had but keep rehearsing. The faces of people you love. The children you miss. Their future. Your past.

“Stop,” you tell your mind, but it does not listen.

The thoughts spin, twist, and weave, as if you are knitting your life with invisible needles. Every choice, every memory becomes a stitch, a thread.

And you hope that, in the end, all of it will become a beautiful mélange sweater — warm, soft, ready to keep you safe in the cold.

But then a voice inside you asks:

— “What if you can’t wear it? What if the sweater falls apart?”

— “What if you chose wrong? What if you needed more time, and now it’s too late?”

Sometimes, when you make mistakes, pain floods in.

You scold yourself.

“Why did I do this? Why can’t I be better?”

You hurt yourself with words sharper than any knife. And while you carry that invisible wound, you sometimes hurt the ones who love you most.

Yet… someone in heaven loves you. Truly, endlessly.

You feel it sometimes in the quiet moments, in the way a ray of light touches your face.

He is always near. Always.

Knitting love for you, stitch by stitch, just like that sweater a sweater of warmth, patience, and eternal tenderness.

Love is like this:

It awakens when you awaken.

When you pause on the street because you notice the tiny rosebud pushing through the fence.

When a boy in a group of children catches your eye and says with a shy, sincere smile:

“Bonjour, Madame!”

When you meet the gaze of animals that silently wait for you to come home.

When you breathe in the scent of freshly baked bread or the summer rain.

When, after climbing a hill in the burning sun, you dream of a cold beer with white foam as soft as a cloud and in that small moment, you feel alive.

Life is in these moments.

To notice them.

To feel them.

“I will pray in silence,” I tell myself. “For the one who loves me. For the one who waits. For the one who is always with me.”

And even when emotions mix sadness with joy, fear with hope life goes on. Always.

It gives me one more step, one more chance, one more path toward the dream that still lives in my heart.

“What do I need?” I ask quietly.

The answer comes like a whisper:

Learn to enjoy your life.

Not to waste time on meaningless arguments.

Not to drown in dark memories of the past.

Not to let pain become the only language you speak.

I want to surround myself with kind words, with nature, with people who give light, with my children, my family, and the gentle comfort of good health.

I want to feel happiness. Not chase it — but carry it inside me.

Today is my Mother’s Day. The day she left us.

The woman who gave life to eight children.

I am grateful.

So grateful for my brothers and sisters — especially my older sisters.

When Mama left, they became my shield. My comfort. My second mothers.

The transition into a life without her was softer because they held my hand.

I remember my childhood.

Mama was sick, and I was afraid.

“Papa,” I asked once, “what will we do if Mama is gone? How can we live without her?”

I remember falling asleep with one dream:

“I will become a doctor. I will heal Mama. I will never let her be sick again.”

And I sang — oh, how I sang!

A little song about a yellow bird who could heal people.

I would sing it for Mama and Papa.

I can still see their faces tired, but glowing with gratitude.

I remember one evening, Papa sat me on his knees and asked,

“My little daughter, when you grow up, will you bring me tea?”

“Yes, Papa,” I said, looking straight into his eyes. “I will always be with you. I will always bring you tea.”

But time passed.

And I left the home where I grew up that house full of warmth, laughter, neighbors, and friends. There were always guests, always celebrations. Always life.

I remember when Mama cooked. Oh, the smell of her bread! We never had enough chairs.

The older kids sat at the big round table, while the younger ones, including me, sat on the floor with our own little tablecloth.

We didn’t mind.

We laughed. We fought over the last piece of bread. We shared.

Breakfasts. Lunches. Dinners.

Different tastes, different dishes, different drinks.

We were children of a happy family.

We were happy.

And happiness was always there.