I rise before the sun speaks,
coffee sharp, binder open—
the day waits for no one,
but I wait for myself now.
No pawprint on the blanket,
no soft weight curled beside me,
just memory,
and the way it still warms.
January took Shady.
The cold outside matched the quiet inside—
I held him through the end,
while the phone held silence
about my mother.
Two losses,
one heartbeat.
Still my house is full of love,
Slurpie’s purr,
like a motor under moonlight,
reminds me how joy
can hum through silence.
Huck, the wanderer,
bold and bright-eyed,
showed me how to chase
without fear of falling.
Dewey, gentle as a sigh,
taught me the grace
of quiet companionship—
how love doesn’t need to speak.
Sprinkles, wild-hearted,
a comet in fur,
proved that chaos
can be its own kind of healing.
I walk through rooms
where silence used to ache—
now it listens.
Now it lets me speak.
I write in layers:
truth, then tenderness,
then the kind of love
that survives its own ending.
My mother’s voice
still folds into my habits—
a recipe, a warning,
a lullaby I never learned to sing.
This new life isn’t loud.
It’s not triumphant.
But it’s mine—
stitched from loss,
threaded with grace,
and ready for the next page.
© Jaime Pearson 2025. All rights reserved.
Please do not copy, reproduce, or share without permission.
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