“I Still Set the Table for You”

The shoes by the door

are mine now.

The fridge stays full

longer than it should.

And the quiet—

the quiet hums

with memory.

You’ve gone.

Not far.

Not really.

But gone enough

that your room feels

like a museum

of before.

Gone enough

that your absence

has its own drawer.

I still fold your favorite blanket

even though it hasn’t moved in weeks.

I still keep your cereal

in the same spot,

just in case.

I still set the table

for more than one.

I remember

the sound of your footsteps

racing down hallways,

the late-night talks

over nothing and everything,

the way your laughter

made the walls

feel alive.

Now I track

your updates

through texts and phone calls—

grateful,

but missing

the nearness of you.

No one warns you

that the hardest part

of parenting

might be

after.

When the letting go

has happened,

and you’re left

holding memories

like soft-worn cloth.

But this too

is love.

To make space.

To stay ready.

To cheer from afar

and weep

when no one sees.

To love them

even more

as they become

someone you helped shape—

but do not own.