Well, this sucks…
I recently decided to rewatch Fatherhood, and wow, it hit so differently this time. The first time I watched it, it was sad, yes, but distant. This time, though, it cracked something open inside me. It made me realize something no one really warns you about: grief doesn’t just visit you, it changes you.
It’s been six months since you left. Life feels… altered. Reshaped in ways I never imagined.
This month, your birth month, your friends, the ones who became family, held their usual gathering. They called and invited me to join them. Their voices were so full of life, and I could hear how deeply your memory still lives with them.
I miss you. I miss the days I’d rush home, burst into your room, and spill every little piece of gossip and news, our daily gist sessions you never got tired of. You were everything to me.
Whenever we stepped out together, people often mistook us for sisters. We would just laugh and roll with it, proudly claiming it. Those moments feel like dreams now, sweet, cruel dreams. Waking up without you here stings in ways I can’t explain. Sometimes it feels like the ache might swallow me whole.
It all happened so fast. Even now, I meet people who, with bright eyes, ask how you’re doing. Every time, my heart clenches before I have to say the words. Every time, it feels like ripping a bandage off a fresh wound.
I’m writing this not to bring sadness, but to let out some of the love and ache I carry.
If you love someone, tell them. Hug them. Laugh with them. Be foolish with them. Tomorrow isn’t promised, and sometimes goodbye comes when you least expect it.
I think back to those hospital visits, how you would sometimes force me to tag along. I didn’t always want to go, but I’m so grateful now for every second we spent together. We had so many plans. We were ready to conquer the world together, especially now that work and dreams were starting to fall into place. But the Lord, in His wisdom, must have loved you more and called you home.
Grief Changes You.
I miss you every day, Mom.
Written with a lot of love by,
Martha Nansubuga
If You Could Hear Me
I still call your name,
sometimes out loud,
Sometimes only inside my breaking heart.
I still turn to tell you things,
forgetting for a second
that you are gone.
Grief is a quiet thief.
It steals the colours from my days,
and leaves me chasing shadows that look like you.
If you could hear me,
I would say
I’m sorry for every rushed goodbye.
I’m grateful for every stubborn hug.
I love you more with every aching breath.
You are the silence in my laughter,
the hollow in my joy,
The prayer in my every step.
And I miss you
More than these small words will ever be able to carry.