I didn’t just lose a son.
I lost so much more.
I lost the person I texted about truck parts.
The one who would stop and grab dog food when I forgot.
The one I leaned on to help me make decisions when my mind felt heavy.
I lost the person who sat beside me at the campfire,
telling stories like time wasn’t real.
The one who rode around with me just to check out other people’s campsites,
like it was our own little ritual.
I lost the person I told my secrets to.
The one who would protect me without hesitation,
at any moment, without question.
I lost my line-dancing partner.
The one who drove dirt roads with me,
singing Carrie Underwood loud and terrible,
not caring who heard.
I lost the person who would swap a propane tank
in the middle of the night
because it needed to be done.
The one who was always willing to be a ride,
or… I can’t even say that anymore.
I lost the person I shared new music with.
The one who stepped in with his siblings
when I couldn’t.
The one I worried about the most.
The person I often feared losing.
The person I prayed the hardest for.
The person who taught me how to be a mother.
I lost the person who could make me truly laugh.
I lost the person I trusted to tell the truth to.
I lost the person who held me together
in some of my darkest moments
and let me do the same for him.
He wasn’t just my son.
He was my best friend.
He was my person.
And losing that
is the kind of grief
that takes more than one piece of you with it.