Spring arrives like a promise
I cannot make myself believe in.
The trees stretch bare hands toward heaven and suddenly wear green again, flowers press through broken earth,
the sun lingers longer each evening
as if the whole world has agreed
it is time to come back to life.
And everywhere I turn
they speak of resurrection.
Of stones rolled away.
Of graves left empty.
Of a Son returned.
Church bells ring beneath bright skies
while I stand in the warmth of spring with winter still buried in my chest, wondering what kind of cruel miracle lets the whole world rise again except mine.
Because the earth keeps resurrecting itself
and my son does not.
No matter how golden the sunlight falls,
it does not warm the place his absence left.
No matter how many flowers bloom, they cannot soften the truth
that Austin will not bloom again here.
And maybe that is what makes spring so painful—
it is a season built on return,
on rebirth,
on the holy ache of things thought lost
finding their way home again.
But some of us stand in the middle of all that beauty holding losses that do not resurrect.
while the world celebrated the risen Son
I looked to the sky and thought of my own son and how no miracle came for me.
The birds still sing.
The flowers still open.
The earth still turns toward life.
And I remain here,
loving someone
who does not return with the spring