Disclaimer: This post discusses grief and loss and may evoke strong emotions. Please read with care and prioritize your well-being.

Today, the loss hit me in a way it hadn’t before. Seeing my papa’s name etched into the stone alongside mama’s—it was like the final punctuation on a sentence I hadn’t wanted to finish reading. I’ve cried before, felt the weight of his absence, but this was different. It wasn’t just grief; it was permanence staring back at me.

Their names, side by side, should feel comforting, shouldn’t they? They’re together again, just like they always were. But all I felt was the hollow ache of what’s missing here, now. His laughter, his voice, his steady presence—gone, leaving only that cold, carved name as proof he was ever here at all.

I stood there longer than I expected, tracing the letters with my fingers as if I could summon him back through touch. I thought of all the times he’d held my hand, how strong and steady he always felt. And now, it’s just me, holding memories instead.

The world feels quieter without him. Smaller, somehow. And though I keep telling myself that he wouldn’t want me to carry this sadness, it feels impossible to set it down. Grief isn’t linear, they say, but today feels like the deepest dip yet.

I miss him, and I miss her. Together they were my anchors, and now I feel adrift. I hope they’re at peace, wherever they are. I hope they know how much they’re loved.