Do you wake with the light, or is it always day?
Do the angels know your name when you walk their way?
Is there music in the air, do you finally feel free?
Do you ever look down and still think about me?
Do you have your old smile, do you laugh like before?
Is there somebody waiting when you step through the door?
I imagine you peaceful, no fear in your chest
No more pain in your body, just finally rest
Tell me, how is heaven?
Is it everything they say?
Are the streets really golden?
Does the hurt all fade away?
I hope you found the peace
That this world couldn’t give
I’m still learning how to lose you
You’re learning how to live
Maybe you’re by a river where the water stays still
Maybe you’re on a hillside with a house on the hill
Maybe time doesn’t matter, maybe years feel like one
Maybe you don’t miss the night ’cause you live near the sun
Do you sing with the choir, do you stand near the throne?
Do you feel all the love that we should have shown?
Do you know every word that I never could say?
Do my prayers reach heaven when I whisper your name?
Tell me, how is heaven?
Is it everything they say?
Are the streets really golden?
Does the hurt all fade away?
I hope you found the peace
That this world couldn’t give
I’m still learning how to lose you
You’re learning how to live
I picture God beside you, saying, “You can let go”
Showing you the answers we were never meant to know
Maybe you can see me when I’m breaking at night
Maybe you’re the reason I still look for the light
And I know I can’t call you, I can’t hear your reply
So I talk to the ceiling and imagine the sky
I’ll keep carrying your love till my own journey ends
Then you can tell me all about heaven, my friend
How is heaven?
Do you feel no pain?
How is heaven?
Will I see you again?
Save me a place
Somewhere close to the sun
I’ll keep talking to you
Till my hallelujah comes

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Thijs Bakker

I had a dream of you last night.  Its been so long.  The familiar clothes you always wore.  Your hair the way it was.  I hugged you and I felt it right through my dream like you were hugging back.  No words…I try to look at the world for you here now.  All the things you saw up close.  The beauty in nature.   Where you found peace and kindness.  Its how I keep you here with me .   You will always be my favorite thing about my life.

Ill always remember you  said this

They will never know how much the memory of the simplest moment means so much to hear.  10 years of carrying you through every day.

No one tells you what it feels like to keep breathing after your child stops. Not in a poetic way. Not in a spiritual way. In a purely physical, disorienting way—like your lungs are committing some kind of betrayal by continuing without permission.

This wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t hidden in the fine print of parenthood. We’re taught to expect scraped knees, late-night fevers, heartbreaks we can’t fix. We’re not taught how to survive the moment when the future you were promised simply evaporates. One second, your child exists in the world. The next, they don’t. And somehow you are still here, expected to carry on as if the laws of reality weren’t just violently rewritten.

I still catch myself waiting for proof this is a mistake. A text that won’t come. A door that won’t open. A voice I know better than my own that will never call my name again. My brain keeps scanning for them like muscle memory, refusing to accept the update that says they’re gone forever. My body remembers holding them. My arms still expect weight. That’s the cruelest part—your instincts don’t get the memo.

Other parents talk about graduations and jobs and grandchildren. I listen politely, while inside I am standing in a room that has no future left to imagine. My child’s timeline just… ended. No next phase. No “one day.” Just a brutal full stop in a story that wasn’t finished being written.

People tell me I’m strong. I don’t feel strong. I feel like someone hollowed me out and left the shell standing. I get out of bed because gravity still works and the world doesn’t pause for grief. Not because I’ve accepted anything. Not because I’m okay.

Losing a child doesn’t just break your heart. It breaks your identity. It breaks your understanding of how life is supposed to work. It leaves you loving someone who no longer has a place to receive that love.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It still doesn’t make sense. And I don’t think it ever will.

But I am here. Loving a child who is no longer alive. Carrying a grief that will never graduate into something softer. Learning how to exist in a reality I never agreed to.

And that is my life now.

© Love & Loss