A Little Cry Together

A Little Cry Together 

By Annette Camp 

January 10, 2026

He says it plainly,

as if naming the weather.

Today he said,

“I’m going to die a skeleton

in a little box,”

and the words fall heavy,

unfinished,

like he’s already halfway gone.

Then the crying comes—

not loud,

just steady,

like something leaking

that can’t be sealed anymore.

We have a little cry together,

the kind that doesn’t try to be brave,

the kind that admits

this hurts too much to carry alone.

I tell him I’m here.

Not with answers.

Just here—

to sit beside him, 

to let the quiet hold us, 

to offer the small comfort I can, 

to help hold the ache he carries.

My voice is steadier than I feel,

but it is real.

His breathing changes.

The crying loosens its grip.

His body chooses rest

before his mind does.

He falls asleep

while I am still watching,

still holding the moment

as carefully as I know how.

For now,

this is what love looks like:

staying,

listening,

and not leaving

when the truth is hard to hear.