Why Her?

I spent countless hours—

zombie days,

sleepless nights—

trying to understand

why my mother

had to get cancer

and die.

Why her?

What was the lesson

I was supposed to learn

from watching God

take the softest thing

I ever loved?

Instead,

I learned

how to smile

without heat.

How to nod

with a broken throat.

How to wrap grief

in politeness

and call it

strength.

I learned

how to survive

by becoming smaller

than my pain.

Time

did what time does—

slow,

unapologetic,

exact.

My heart stitched itself

back together

without asking

my permission.

Layer by layer.

Scar tissue

thick as history.

Discoloration

that never fades—

only deepens.

It beats now—

steady,

unafraid.

There is peace here,

not because

it didn’t hurt,

but because

I no longer fear

where pain ends.

Death

does not scare me.

I have already watched

love cross that threshold

and remain.

So I breathe

at my own pace.

I do not rush

the living.

I do not bargain

with the unknown.

I dwell

in gratefulness

for this pulse,

for this quiet,

for the knowing

that whatever

comes next

cannot take

what has already

made me whole.