When I meet Jesus,
I don’t think He’ll need to ask me how I lived.
I think He’ll already know.
He’ll open my heart like a book, run His fingers across the pages, and there you’ll be

your names written in every margin,
bleeding through paper, through bone, through everything I ever was.
He’ll look closer… and He’ll see what you left behind.

The way your love carved itself into me,
deep enough that it never learned how to fade; He’ll take my hands in His, and He’ll understand, they were shaped by you.

By your touch, your guidance, the quiet ways you taught me how to exist in this world, And when He looks into my eyes… even if the light is gone, even if they’re tired and empty, He’ll still find you there.

Still standing. Still present. Like something that refused to leave, no matter how much time tried to pull you away.

Even then… even in death, I don’t think my soul will ask for mercy. I think it will still be looking for you.

Still mourning you. Still holding onto you
with a love so fierce it forgets everything else,
even salvation.

And maybe my voice will fail me. Maybe my throat will close when it matters most…. But even then… your names will rise anyway.

Again, and again, and again—
like a resurrection… I keep trying to believe in
with whatever breath I have left.

I miss you….
I miss you, Dad…
I miss you, Mom….