Hollow

I am hollow, my grief echoes inside of me. Instead of diminishing, it grows louder, until I answer it, then it fades to an ache.

I am hollow, my love for a son rattles around, seeking an expressive avenue, until I send it heavenward, but it brings little physical comfort.

I am hollow, my hopes for a daughter’s future feel cloudy and insubstantial, until I give them up and tell her I love her.

I am hollow, my charge as a protector feels empty, like I have failed, until I hold my wife or make my daughter laugh.

I am hollow, like my heart is separated from me, until I am reminded of a eternity with my lost loved ones.

I am hollow, please remind me that I am solid.