The Space Between Now and Goodbye

There’s a kind of grief that starts long before the funeral.

It begins in exam rooms and waiting areas.
In conversations you don’t want to have.
In words that land heavy and stay there.

It shows up when you notice the change in them.
The tiredness they can’t hide anymore.
The look in their eyes that tells you things are worse than they’re saying out loud.

You start grieving while they’re still here.
Still holding their hand.
Still saying I love you like it might somehow help.

You learn how to smile while everything inside you is falling apart.
You help them eat.
Get settled.
Take their meds.
You focus on the small things that get you through one more day.

You act strong because you don’t want to scare them.
You listen while doctor’s talk.
You write things down you never wanted to know.
You survive on caffeine and nerves and whatever keeps you standing.

Time does something strange.
You watch the clock, but you don’t want it to move.
You stay close.
You don’t leave.
Because there is nowhere else you want to be.

You’re exhausted in ways you didn’t know were possible.
But you keep showing up anyway.
You hold their hand.
You make sure they’re comfortable.
You whisper you love them.

You give everything you have left,
because this is the last stretch of loving them like this.
You hold on while the rest of the world starts to loosen its grip.
And you pour every ounce of love you have into the space between now and goodbye.

If you’ve enjoyed my writing here, What Remains brings together many of my most meaningful pieces in one place. It’s a collection of writings about grief, love, loss, and the lasting connections that remain.

Available now on Amazon