Your wedding dress hangs in the closet,
a ghost of white in the darkness of our shared room,
the one you never got to see me wear,
the one I now wrap myself in at night,
the silk a shroud against the cold reality of your absence.
The cancer was a thief,
creeping into our home like a burglar in the night,
stealing your breath,
your strength,
your future,
leaving behind only pain and the hollow echo of what once was.
I remember the day you were diagnosed,
the doctor's words like stones dropped into a still pond,
ripples of shock spreading outward until they reached me,
standing there in the sterile office,
my life shattering into a million pieces I would never be able to put back together.
The treatments were a torture chamber,
each round of chemo a new circle of hell,
your body a battlefield where modern medicine fought a losing war,
and I was the medic who could only watch,
helpless,
as the enemy claimed more territory with each passing day.
Your laughter, once the soundtrack of my life,
became a rare and precious thing,
a jewel in the rubble of our existence,
and I cherished each instance,
stored them away in the treasure chest of my memory,
not realizing they would become weapons against me in the end.
The night you died,
the world didn't stop as I had expected it to,
the birds still sang,
the traffic still hummed,
people still went about their lives,
oblivious to the fact that mine had ended,
that the sun had set on my world forever.
I held your hand as you took your last breath,
felt the life slip away from you like sand through my fingers,
and in that moment,
a part of me died too,
the part that knew how to live without you.
Your funeral was a performance,
a charade of stoic grief,
while inside I was screaming,
tearing at the walls of my sanity,
begging for someone to see the truth—
that I was not just grieving,
I was being erased.
The house b...
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