In Remembrance of Jeanne

 There is a sudden vacuum in the atmosphere.

A stillness so heavy it catches in the throat,
an echo in the hallway where a warm voice used to float.
For over a decade, the world narrowed down to a single, sacred room—
to a rhythm of care, of medicine, of shielding her from the gloom.
I was the anchor in the middle of her storm,
keeping the vigil, keeping her safe, keeping her warm.

They try to classify a life on a sterile piece of paper,
write down a clinical acronym and let the truth vaporize into air.
But they don’t know about the storm.
They don’t know about the fierce, quiet war of the mind,
or the beautiful, complex spirit that the dust left behind.
They didn’t see the final, chaotic rain,
where the world stripped away everything but the raw, human pain.

They didn’t feel the magic of her touch.
A connection so deep, so electric, so rare,
that the universe seemed to pause just to watch us there.
Two currents perfectly aligned, working in seamless compatibility,
a depth of intimacy that defied the laws of physical fragility.
Just holding her—just the quiet, fierce gravity of a embrace—
could trigger a climax of the soul, a lightning strike in a quiet space.
We built a sanctuary out of thin air,
a bond so intense, most people wouldn't even dare to dream it’s there.

Now, the house is a museum of things she used to collect.
A drawer of photos, a lifetime of files to inspect.
A kind neighbor helps haul the material weight away to the street,
while I navigate a grief that knocks me completely off my feet.
One moment I am standing, steady and clear,
the next, a waterfall of tears, drowning in the vacuum of her not being here.
I sleep for seven hours, or I don't sleep at all,
constantly waking up, listening for her footstep in the hall.

My daughter calls every day, trying to read between the lines,
searching for a reassurance I can't quite manufacture or find.
Because when you love that deeply, when you care for that long,
you don’t prepare for the quiet after the end of the song.

I know the spiritual nature of life. I know the energy doesn't die.
I know she is untethered now, free to roam the wide, open sky.
But the human in me misses the magic.
Misses the warmth of the voice that used to call my name.
The world moves on outside, but it will never be the exact same.

Jeanne.
The storm has finally cleared, the physical senses are at rest,
but the electric current of what we shared...
stays locked forever inside my chest.