The Weight I Carry

 

They folded your uniform

with the careful silence

people reserve for tragedies.

A flag replaced your warmth.

Metal replaced your voice.

And everyone spoke to me

as if grief might break

if whispered to softly.

But they do not hear

the second heartbeat

I carry.

Your child

turns like a small question

beneath my ribs.

How do I tell this life

that its father

became a story

before it learned

his name?

At night I press

your dog tags

against my stomach.

The metal grows warm

between us,

as if memory

still knows how to breathe.

You left

with boots that promised return,

with laughter tucked

into the pockets of your jacket.

Now the wind moves

through the empty sleeves.

They say you died

for a nation.

But here,

in the quiet of our unfinished home,

I count the smaller wars—

a crib

you will never build,

a hand

that will never guide

tiny fingers,

a child

who will search your face

only in photographs.

Still,

I whisper your name

to the life within me.

Because somewhere

between sorrow

and tomorrow,

our child

is learning

that love

can survive even war.