The Space You Left.
From my book, "Walking With Grief."
The night you died didn’t feel real. To this day, when I think back on it, all the moments swirl together in one big blur. I couldn’t really miss you that night because, to me, you were still here — just sleeping as we all left the hospital.
It was the moment your radio played out of nowhere the morning we first went to the funeral home that I missed you. It made me think you turned it on to let us know that you’re still there, that you would always be there in that house. It was the moment someone laughed in the middle of the grief that I missed you because I knew that’s what you’d want. I missed you when the sun shined because the world was still turning and it wasn’t fair.
It’s in all the moments that you haven’t been here for that I have missed you the most. Not the night that we got the call to come to the hospital. Not the night that you died. But in all the moments that you have missed since we walked out that door.
Leaving you behind is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I like to believe that, since you left, you’ve been finding ways to let us know you miss us too.
About the Creator
April Kirby.
I'm April, a writer from a small town who found purpose in poetry. Grief—both human and canine—is my focus. I write to honor love, loss, and healing.
My books are available below. <33
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Comments (1)
I relate to this. Grief often shows up in the smallest moments — those times when you wish they were here, even for the simple things. It’s not the big events that get to you, but the quiet, everyday pieces of life that they’re no longer part of. That’s where the loss hits the hardest. I understand how that feels.