Those who mourn

 

 

If I died today,

there would be silence in all the wrong places.

No sudden weeping from the ones I once protected.

No pause from the ones I once loved louder

than was wise.

 

The world would go on—

the kettle would boil,

the inbox would ping,

someone would post a smiling photo

and call it family.

 

Maybe a few would whisper,

“She was complicated.”

“She kept her distance.”

“She was never quite right.”

 

No one would say:

“She bore more than she should’ve.”

“She forgave what others denied.”

“She kept loving, even when no one came back.”

 

But I would know.

And the wind might remember.

And my bird—he might cock his little head

and search the room

for the woman who called him “brave.”

 

And maybe—

in some quiet, unseen corner—

God would rise,

and call it

a homecoming.

 

 

Artist’s Note

This piece emerged from a very old ache—one I rarely gave language to until now.

 

It’s the grief of watching the people I’ve loved most dearly move on, unaffected, while I stayed behind carrying all the weight. It’s the slow realisation that some of the deepest love I’ve ever given was either taken for granted, misunderstood, or treated as too much.

 

I didn’t write this for sympathy. I wrote it to mark something true:

That to love like I did, in a family that distorted every mirror, was a quiet act of rebellion.

That even if no one mourns me the way I once hoped they would, it doesn’t mean my love was wasted.

It means they never had the eyes to see it.

 

But God did. And perhaps, so does the wind. And a little green bird named Bertie.

Done