Under the Spring Sun

Lying in the grass,
the blades press gently against my skin,
as if the earth remembers me
from a time before grief learned my name.

The sun kisses my cheek
a warmth that settles in my chest,
soft, familiar,
like a memory slowly walking home.

I sit up and wonder,
where are you now?

I remember pushing you up the hills,
wind rushing wild around us,
your laughter spilling into the air
a sound so bright
even time paused to listen.

Now the clouds drift lazily above me,
their shadows crawling across the ground,
and I ask the sky,
are you somewhere watching back?

Your voice has faded
to a winter breeze trapped
beneath a spring sun
but your eyes,
curious and aching with hope,
are carved into my memory
like constellations I can no longer touch.

You taught me grace.
You taught me compassion.
But most of all,
you taught me how to savor
life's smallest glimmers
how to feel the world fully,
even when it hurt to do so.

To live is to be free,
you once taught me,
and to be free
is to understand that nothing,
nothing at all,
is promised forever.

And then you were gone
a goodbye I never believed in,
a departure that felt stolen
and unbearably soon.
But now I understand:
God was calling you home.

So I lie here under the same spring sun
that once held our laughter,
where the world felt light,
where love felt endless.

And when the wind kisses my cheek,
soft as prayer,
I close my eyes

and I know.
It's you.
Still finding me in the quiet,
still watching from above,
still loving me
under the spring sun.