His Song

I met Roland when I was fifteen.

Too old to be a child, too young to understand

what it meant to be

welcomed home

by someone you didn’t know you were waiting for.

He pulled out a chair at dinner

and smiled like it was already mine.

If the sky even hinted at dusk,

he insisted on driving me home.

It wasn’t safe, he said—

but what he meant was: you are safe with me.

He loved his people deep

and laughed like the room couldn’t hold it all.

He lived for the rhythm of his family—

and somehow,

he let me become part of the beat.

We became chemo buddies.

Matching nausea,

matching fatigue.

One day he convinced me to go fishing—

something he loved.

I didn't love it so much.

But we were both too sick to care,

casting lines with shaky arms,

laughing at how miserable we felt,

and how lucky we were to be feeling anything at all.

We cooked together.

That was our language.

He started dinners for the neighborhood again

and let me help stir the pots.

Love looked like full plates and full bellies.

We chopped and seasoned with intention,

fed strangers like they were family,

fed family like they were holy.

In that kitchen,

he taught me what giving looked like—

what love like that could feel like.

When I was sad—

and I mean soul-deep sad—

I’d come to his room

tears already falling.

He’d pull out his ukulele and strum chords of Hallelujah

like it was a prayer

he knew would reach me.

He'd start singing and keep going until I joined in.

That song felt sacred

His presence was a refuge.

When the world told me I was too much or not enough,

his voice stayed steady in my head:

stand up.

take up space.

you are worth protecting.

Now

his body is still

his breath has left

his pain is over

but his song remains—

in the way I stand tall in rooms that try to shrink me,

in the way I love our family loud and without condition,

in the way I laugh, even when it hurts.

I will hum his melody

in kitchens and car rides,

at the edge of lakes I still don’t love,

in the quiet moments

when grief comes creeping in.

His love was a song

and I’ll sing it until I see him again—

and I know,

without question,

he’s already working on the next verse.

I can't wait to hear it;

when I get there.