Question

He is three,
and the world is still small—
sticky hands, bright shoes,
questions that begin with why
and end before the answer comes.

He knows her in pieces.
In the way the sun feels warm on his cheeks.
In the hum of a lullaby
the air still remembers.
In arms that should be there
and somehow still are.

He waits for her in quiet moments,
when toys are lined up just right,
when bedtime feels too big,
when a word gets stuck
and needs help coming out.

She is not gone to him.
She is everywhere he looks without knowing why—
in laughter that surprises him,
in kindness he offers freely,
in the way love already lives inside his chest
so naturally.

He carries her in his small heartbeat,
steady and brave,
a story still being written
by a boy who loved his mother
before he had the words
to say goodbye.

And somehow,
somewhere beyond what we can see,
love stays.