The Shape of Your Grief: A Memory of Lives Once Lived

I remember the shape of your grief ,

folded into corners of your living room,

spilling over the edges of your front lawn,

like scattered puzzle pieces

that no one dared to assemble.

I remember the sunlight falling through your windows,

catching the dust motes as if they were stars

suspended over the fragments of your life—

each one a story, each one a wound,

each one waiting for someone

to remember it.

I remember your dog, old and fragile,

limping along the paths of your yard,

nose pressed to the ground,

seeking traces of a world that once made sense.

His golden fur glowed in the dying sunlight,

soft as memory, stubborn as hope.

I remember the silver maple in your lawn,

its branches like arms reaching for the sky,

casting shadows that danced like old friends

across the grass.

I remember the day disease claimed it,

how the leaves wept quietly in the wind,

as if the tree itself mourned

for all the lives it had sheltered.

I remember the mailbox, battered,

struck five times by some careless hand

in the dead of night.

I remember your sigh,

your quiet surrender to the small tragedies

that pile up like stones

until even the air feels heavy.

I have carried a slice of your sorrow

as if it were my own,

tucked it into my pockets,

and let it warm my hands in the cold hours

when the world seemed too sharp, too fast.

I do not know why I do this—

perhaps because memories are contagious,

perhaps because grief, when shared,

becomes less lonely.

And so I stand sentinel,

watching over the remnants of your life:

the dog, the tree, the mailbox,

the scattered pieces of a summer afternoon

that belonged to you

and to no one else.

I remember it all,

not as it was,

but as it feels—

fragile, fleeting, sacred.

And I carry it forward,

a quiet witness

to lives once lived,

and the shape of grief

that remains long after they are gone.

author,imtiaz alam