She

Mama always looked at papa
With eyes full of love.
But when he passed,
The house forgot to breathe.

I watched how she carried her grief—
Gently, quietly, like a cup of coffee;
One spill could flood the room.

She moved through rooms
Like someone learning to walk again:
Each step a prayer,
Each breath a kind of courage.

She prays without sound;
The words stay inside her chest,
Like a bird that refuses to fly.

God must understand this silence;
The language of women who’ve lost the world,
But still make it move.

When she laughed again,
It startled the house,
Like a clock long still,
Suddenly ticking.

Now the house breathes differently,
Not how it used to, but enough.
She still looks at him with love,
But only in pictures.