By Michelle Perrin-Crawford

There was a moment, a Wednesday,
the world split in two-
before you
and everything after.

In the before
your voice lived in the ordinary-
the recipes half-remembered,
in the way laughter filled a room
before I even knew why.

In the after,
silence learned my name.
It resides on the other end of the phone,
rides along in empty passenger seats,
echoes where your laughter and stories used to land.

They say time softens grief
but that isn’t so.
Grief doesn’t shrink
it teaches your heart
how to grow around it.

So I carry you now
not by your presence,
but in quiet ways-
in the instinct to be kind
the urge to talk to a stranger
in the way I still turn to tell you things.

I move forward
not because I am ready
not because I’m finished missing you-
but because you loved me
into someone who could.

And some days
I’m paddling through life in an invisible canoe,
treading the water of my tears-
laughing and feeling guilty afterwards
standing in the sunlight
and wondering how it still shines.

But it does

I’ll find you in the scent of a rose,
soft and unexpected.
in the warmth I didn’t expect,
in the strength I didn’t know that I had.

I keep moving forward.

With your love stitched in my bones,
with your memory lighting the dark,
with every step saying
what I didn’t get to say enough-

I keep moving forward.