Before The World Got Heavy

There was a house 

before the world got heavy. 

Before grief memorized my address. 

Before silence started answering

the phone. 

Inside that house 

three people had lived

the world called 

my grandmother, my grandfather, and my uncle. 

But the truth is— 

They were the architects 

of the life 

I’m still trying to survive. 

Because before the storms, 

before the losses, 

before life taught me how fragile joy can be— 

Before the world got heavy… they carried me. 

Granny loved me 

like doubt didn’t exist. 

Like the universe 

had personally guaranteed 

my worth. 

When my own mind 

tried to convince me 

I was undeserving of good things— 

She spoke with a certainty 

that made insecurity pack its bags. 

She fed my stomach. 

She fed my spirit. 

She fed the version of me 

I hadn’t grown into yet. 

And when life later 

tried to convince me 

I wasn’t enough— 

Somewhere inside my chest 

her voice still whispers 

“Yes you are.” 

Because before the world 

ever got a chance to judge me— 

Before the world got heavy… she carried me. 

Granddaddy was a man 

whose hands looked like work. 

The kind of hands 

that understood tractors, dirt, sweat, 

and responsibility. 

But those same hands 

knew how to hold 

a child’s future steady. 

I remember sitting 

on his shoulders at SeaWorld. 

Back then I thought

he was just helping me see better. 

What I didn’t realize was— 

He would spend decades 

holding me up just like that. 

When the world questioned me 

he didn’t. 

When I doubted myself 

he didn’t. 

When life tried to break me 

he stood behind me 

like gravity. 

Three words built the foundation under my life: 

“That’s my boy.”...and one of my favs

"Ya'll know the boy not wrapped tight!"

And if you’ve never heard

those words from someone who means them— 

you don’t understand 

how powerful they are. 

Because before illness, before suffering, 

before life brought me to the edge of myself— 

Before the world got heavy… he carried me. 

Then there was my uncle. 

My favorite uncle. 

But truthfully— 

Another man 

who helped raise me. 

Our phone calls

 were supposed to be 

two minutes. 

But love like ours 

never respected the clock. 

Two minutes turned into stories. 

Stories turned into laughter. 

Laughter turned into lifelines. 

“Nephew… what’s good?” 

Those three words 

were more than conversation. 

They were rescue boats 

on the days 

my mind was drowning. 

He probably thought 

we were just talking. 

But what he was really doing 

was reminding me 

I wasn’t alone in this life. 

And sometimes

that reminder 

was the only reason 

I made it through the day. 

Because even when the darkness

started closing in— 

Before the world got too heavy… he carried me. 

Then time did what time does. 

2019 came first. 

The woman who loved me 

before the world did— 

left. 

And something inside me never fully returned. 

2022 came next. 

The man who

held me up for almost four decades— 

rested. 

Another pillar gone. 

Another silence added 

to the room. 

Then came 2025. 

The day I moved back home. 

The day grief decided 

it still wasn’t finished with me. 

My uncle left too. 

And suddenly the house that raised me 

became a memory. 

But the truth is… 

Those three losses 

weren’t the only ones. 

Between 2019 and 2025 

death visited my life seven times. 

Seven names. 

Seven goodbyes. 

Six of them people who were

deeply woven into my heart. 

And somewhere along that road 

grief stopped arriving as moments— 

and started living as a season. 

Every time I tried

to finish healing from one loss 

Another name was added to the list. 

The weight didn’t get lighter. 

The list just got longer. 

People say time heals. 

But time doesn’t always heal. 

Sometimes time just teaches you 

how to function with missing pieces. 

Some days 

I move through life with determination. 

Other days 

I move through life with numbness. 

Not sadness. 

Not peace. 

Just numbness. 

The kind that lets you breathe 

when feeling like everything 

would suffocate you. 

There are mornings 

I still reach for the phone. 

To call Granddaddy. 

To hear Granny’s voice. 

To see my uncle’s name light up my screen. 

There are moments I still expect to hear— 

“Nephew… what’s good?” 

But grief doesn’t answer calls. 

And yet— 

Even in the silence their voices remain. 

Granny’s belief. 

Granddaddy’s pride. 

My uncle’s laughter. 

Three echoes 

living permanently inside my chest. 

Maybe that’s what love does. 

Maybe love refuses to leave. 

Some people inherit money. 

Some inherit land. 

I inherited something greater. 

A grandmother 

who made me believe I was worthy. 

A grandfather 

who made me believe I was capable. 

An uncle 

who made sure I never forgot I was not alone. 

And some days the weight of missing them 

is beyond too much. 

But then I remember something. 

Long before grief found me… 

Long before life got complicated… 

Long before the world taught me 

how heavy living can be— 

Three people carried me. 

And the truth is— 

they still do. 

People think grief 

is the heaviest thing

a person can carry. 

But they’re wrong. 

Love is heavier. 

Because the love

those three people gave me— 

still holds me up. 

And every step I take in this life is proof 

That the house that raised me.......

.......never fell. 

***Dedicated to my parents (maternal grandparents) Amanda & Lawrence Fluellen, and my favorite Uncle - Phillip Fluellen***