https://barneyjamiepearson.com/January 28th, 2025
I held him
like I did in the beginning—
tiny, trembling,
mouth reaching for the bottle
as if love could be swallowed
one drop at a time.
He grew into my shadow,
my lap-bound truth,
the quiet witness
to every unraveling.
Even when the world
spun with chaos—
when mental illness
twisted love into obligation,
and turned care
into control—
he stayed.
I poured myself
into their addiction,
hoping love could reach
what wouldn’t reach back.
And beneath it all,
Shady curled into the silence
and waited
for me to return
to myself.
And now,
he was shrinking again—
bones fragile,
eyes dim,
still searching for me
in the silence.
I was on the phone,
waiting to hear
if my mother had died.
But all I got
was silence.
Two losses hovered,
neither confirmed,
both unbearable.
Then she arrived—
the woman with dusk in her voice,
gentle hands,
no clipboard.
She didn’t speak much.
She didn’t need to.
She saw the way I held him—
not like a pet,
but like a promise
I couldn’t keep.
She knelt beside us,
explained the process
like a ritual,
not a procedure.
She gave him peace
the way I couldn’t.
I kissed his head,
and whispered,
“You couldn’t have loved me more.”
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t flinch.
He just stayed
until the very end—
my constant Shady,
my quiet truth.
And when she stood,
she gathered the blanket
with reverence,
placed him gently in the bag,
and carried him away
like she knew
he was someone
I would never stop loving.
And though he’s gone,
he didn’t take the love.
He left it curled
in the shape of his absence,
still warming my lap
in memory.
From heartbreak to healing, this poem is my journey—raw, honest, and deeply personal. I wrote it to honor the strength I found in the ruins, the growth that came from pain and the light I now carry forward.
© Jaime Pearson 2025. All rights reserved. Please do not copy, reproduce, or share without permission
Leave a Reply