eulogy 3
from where i lay
by the man i once was
I speak now from the quiet earth, where sound no longer trembles. Don’t mistake the stillness for peace —it’s only the absence of the storm I carried.
I was a man of half-built dreams, a jack of many trades, hammer in one hand, a guitar in the other, never quite finishing the song or the home. But my children — oh, my three bright echoes — they were the only thing I ever built that didn’t fall apart.
I never learned to say what love felt like. It came out sideways — a slammed door, a long silence, a thousand broken chords that said, stay, when my mouth said go.
When you left, I told myself I hated you, but the truth is, I hated myself first.
You wanted freedom, I wanted forgiveness, and neither of us knew how to ask for it.
Depression isn’t darkness; it’s fog. You walk for miles and never realize you’re circling the same tree. My mother left me there once, a boy in the fog — and I never did find my way out.
Still if you listen close, you might hear me hum when our son laughs, or strum through the wind as our daughter’s dance barefoot in the grass.
I am not gone,
just quieter now.
Just learning at last, how to love, without hurting.
Chloe