I never got the chance
to see the roles reversed
to tuck her in when the world wore her down,
to stroke her hair and say, “Rest now, I’ve got you.”
She gave and gave
from a well that seemed endless,
but I never got to refill it.
Never got to be her safe place,
her warmth in the cold,
her peace in the chaos.
She was sick,
and I was a child
too small to carry her pain,
too young to understand
that goodbye was coming closer every day.
I wish I could’ve told her
how much I loved her.
Not with clumsy crayons
or sleepy hugs,
but with words that knew their weight.
With a voice steady enough
to match her own.
I imagined it sometimes
grown and strong,
buying her flowers for no reason,
taking her hand as we crossed busy streets.
Cooking meals just the way she liked,
laughing about nothing,
and making her feel like she could finally lean.
But time didn’t wait.
Fate didn’t bend.
And so I live
with the ache of what never was,
and the love
I still would have given.
