Two years have quietly drifted by since I lost my sweet little boy, Caleb. In their passing, they’ve left behind a silence that echoes through every corner of my heart — a silence only a mother’s grief can know. During those years, I clung to a simple cedar chest, guarding it like a treasure. Inside rest the pieces of his beautiful, fleeting life: crayon drawings filled with joy, the tiny shoes that once danced across the living room floor, and his favorite hoodie, soft and worn from love.
These aren’t just keepsakes — they are fragments of him, the tangible whispers of a soul that was taken far too soon. They remind me of his laughter, his light, and the love that refuses to fade, no matter how many sunrises pass.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t fade with time; it changes shape, quietly weaving itself into every breath, every heartbeat, every still moment when the world feels too quiet. It becomes an invisible companion — one you learn to walk beside, even as life continues to move forward.
Through it all, my husband, Ethan, has been my steady ground. He understands the delicate art of grieving and living — how memories can both wound and heal, how love can coexist with loss
