The Little Boy Called Grief

day 1 of the writing challenge

There’s a boy who comes when the lights are low,

barefoot steps where shadows go.

He hums a tune the silence keeps,

and asks his questions while I sleep.

He lifts a cup and tilts his head,

“Did they forget their tea?” he said.

He holds a shoe with quiet care,

“Will they need these when they’re up there?”

He points to coats still on the wall,

“Do they get cold in Heaven’s hall?”

He stares at bedsheets, smooth and neat,

“Will they come home if I keep their seat?”

Each question lands, so small, so true,

a wound I thought that time outgrew.

He doesn’t know he twists the knife,

this child carved out of love and life.

He only knows what’s left behind.

the smell, the touch, the tender kind.

And when he leaves, the air feels brief.

I breathe him in,

the boy called Grief.