Echoes of Appalachia

Today, the world hands out flowers,

wraps pink ribbon around the pain.

But none of it feels made for me—

not with you gone, not with this ache.

I walked past the card aisle,

eyes blurring at words you’ll never read.

“Best Mom,” they said.

But how do I write that

when you’re no longer here to hold the page?

The house is too quiet,

no smell of your cooking,

no soft scolding when I forget to eat.

I keep looking for signs—

a bird on the sill,

your laugh in a stranger,

the scent of cinnamon and old roses.

Grief is loud in a silent room.

I want to call—just to hear the ring.

I want to press my face into your sweater,

to say “thank you” better than I ever did.

You were my map.

Now I’m walking through May,

barefoot in broken glass,

I am still learning how to miss you

in a world that keeps moving

like you were never the center of it.

But you were.

And you still are.

And this day will never not be yours.

-Tim