You didn’t get decades.
You barely got time to breathe between first steps and last words.
They never made it to double digits.
No big birthdays.
No awkward preteen phases.
No chance to argue about curfews or bad grades.

But they rewrote your life
like a comet—
brief, bright, unforgettable.

Now their room stays frozen in time.
Toys untouched.
Drawings still taped to the wall.
And in the drawer—tiny shirts,
so small it hurts to hold them.

You fold their clothes like scripture.
Like every thread still remembers the weight of their joy.
The soft cotton of their favorite shirt.
The pajamas they cried about when they were in the wash.
The hoodie you kept because it still smells like them—
or maybe that’s just memory playing cruel games again.

You hold these things like they’re sacred texts.
As if creases could resurrect.
As if keeping them neat could somehow keep them close.

People try to be kind.
They say things like
“They’re always with you.”
or
“They were too perfect for this world.”

But you didn’t want perfect.
You wanted messy.
Noisy.
Growing.
Living.

You wanted to hear their laugh stretch into awkward teenage years.
You wanted bad haircuts and loud music and slammed doors.

Instead, you got silence.
And a drawer full of proof that they were real.

Because sometimes you look around and wonder
if you imagined them—
if it’s possible for someone so small to leave such a large hole.

So you fold their clothes again.
Not because they’ll wear them.
But because it’s the only way to keep your hands from shaking.

They were here for such a short time.
But now everything is measured in “before” and “after” them.