After the funeral
I drove home slow,
windows down,
air sharp.
It hits different
when it’s someone
you thought
you’d see again.
I’m not here
to hand out lessons.
Just this:
Say the thing.
Even if your voice
comes out rough.
Even if it feels strange
to name what matters.
Touch a shoulder.
Send the message.
Call your brother back.
Tell your kids you’re proud,
even if they roll their eyes.
We don’t get warnings.
Just days that end,
and chairs that stay empty
long after we think
we’ve got time.
I’m not suddenly wise.
I just watched a good man
go into the ground,
and felt something shift
in me.
So here it is,
quiet, true:
Don’t wait.
Tell them now,
before the world decides
you missed
your last chance.
Ryan Stone
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