The Days Keep Coming

3 years ago I lost my younger brother. He was 8. He loved Minecraft and Fortnite and Mario and Pokémon and everything else that 8-year-old boys love.

Grief like that doesn’t really fade. It doesn’t resolve. It's the kind of thing you don't ever get over; you just get through. As you get used to its unceasing presence, it changes shape. At first, it's a storm. Or a trainwreck is the train is also on fire and falling off of a cliff. It's loud, brutal, and everywhere. Then it is a low, constant pressure. Not so in your face, but always there. It doesn’t go away, but you learn how to carry it.

People ask if I’m “doing better now,” and I never really know how to answer. I’ve gotten better at life after it. I’ve learned how to laugh again, how to show up for life, how to feel joy without guilt. But the missing doesn’t stop. I still find myself thinking, “He would’ve loved this,” or “He’d be 11 now,” or “I wonder who he would’ve become.”

This poem is for him. And for anyone who’s carrying something they’ll never really put down.

The Days Keep Coming

You learn to walk with grief like dragging stone,

It never leaves, just settles in your chest.

The world moves on, but you remain alone.

At first it screams. Then softens to a moan

A quiet ache that never takes a rest.

You learn to walk with grief like dragging stone.

Some say “move on,” like pain is overgrown,

As if the heart should heal at their request.

The world moves on, but you remain alone.

You laugh again, though now the joy is toned

By silence where his voice would manifest.

You learn to walk with grief like dragging stone.

The photos stay. The number in your phone.

The birthdays pass. The weight upon your breast.

The world moves on, but you remain alone.

But still, you breathe. And love. And stand. Full-grown

Not over it, but doing your best.

You learn to walk with grief like dragging stone.

The world moves on, but you remain alone.