If I could speak to you

 If I could speak to you—

not in barks or tail wags or soft sighs,
but in words your heart could hold forever—
I’d tell you everything you still wonder about.

I’d tell you I knew I was loved.
Every day. Every moment.
In the way you stroked my ears,
in the way your voice softened when you said my name,
in the way you made room for me
not just in your home,
but in your soul.

I’d tell you my favorite part of life
wasn’t the treats
or the toys
or even the adventures—
it was you.

The way you laughed when I acted silly.
The way you held me when thunder scared me.
The way your eyes shined with pride
over something as simple
as me just being yours.

I’d tell you that when my body grew tired
and my breaths came slower,
I felt peace—not fear.
Because you were there.
Because I was safe.
Because love is a bridge stronger than pain.

I’d tell you not to be ashamed of the tears.
Let them fall.
Let them speak.
They are proof of a love so true
that even death couldn’t dim it.

I’d tell you I visit in little ways—
a warm rush of air,
a sudden memory that feels like touch,
the feeling that you’re not alone
in the darkest part of night.

That’s me.
Still choosing you.
Still loving you in new light.

If I had a voice you could hear, Mom,
I’d tell you this:

I didn’t leave.
I just changed the way I stay.

You carry me now—
in your heartbeat,
in your healing,
in every gentle thought that brings my name to life.
And one day, when time is kinder
and your own journey softens into light,
I’ll come running—
joyful, whole, waiting.

No more missing.
No more searching.
Just you and me again.

If I could speak to you,
I’d say the words I never needed to learn:

Thank you.
I love you.
You were my whole world.

And you still are.