It was meant to be
just another hunting day.
But the shot tore through his heart—
not by accident,
though that’s what they claimed.
The lie unraveled quickly.
Malice was stitched
into the trigger._
Who could imagine
a child capable
of such cruelty?
They took him.
I was just a child.
And so was the murderer.
The thread didn’t break.
It bled.
I carry his name
in the lining of my silence—
a pulse stitched
beneath every word
I never said.
Every time I think of my father,
I remember the one who took him.
I don’t know what he went through
to become so cruel.
But sometimes,
I wish he could understand.
He took a father from his children.
A husband from his wife.
He spent a few years in jail.
But time doesn’t return
when it’s torn from the cloth.
I looked him up once.
He has a son now.
And I thought—
how would your son feel
to lose you?
I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Especially not a child.
But I wish you understood
the pain you caused.
Some losses
sew themselves into bone.
They hum
when the wind shifts.
They tighten
when the moon wanes.
I remember him
when the thread pulls.
I remember him
when the silence speaks.
This is the stitch.
This is the shadow.
This is the blood
that remembers._
And this—
this ache of losing a parent—
is stitched into my story now.
That sadness planted in my heart.
It’s where my writing blooms.