We Still Need You

Illness came

like a thief

in the midnight hush,

took my family

swift, silent—

no need to rush.

Cancer danced

its wicked waltz

through our line,

from grandma’s prayers

to her children’s

slow decline.

I feel them gone—

my mother,

her sisters,

her brother.

Left me holding

the echo

of love

from another.

Yes, it’s selfish,

I know,

to feel so alone

when I saw them

fighting for breath

for home.

They stayed

through the pain

with dignity worn,

their bodies frail,

their spirits torn.

Still I ache

for their scolding,

their laughter,

their care—

the way they filled a room

simply being there.

Our lineage

once born

of saltwater hands

grew into boardrooms,

degrees,

and grand plans.

Watermen, teachers,

now leaders in suits,

harvesting dreams

from deep sacred roots.

We hold your homes,

your land,

your pew.

We keep the churches.

We paid the dues.

But no wealth can cleanse

what the mirror reveals—

coffins carved

in memory

that never heals.

We walk

with your names

proud and tall,

but at times we falter,

we stumble,

we fall.

With all our might

we still feel small,

yearning for wisdom

to answer the call.

So please cover us

in the grace you gave—

in whispered hymns

and the strength

to be brave.

We love you.

We miss you.

We’re trying to lead.

But your presence,

your guidance—

we still

deeply need.