Walking The Earth

You were always traveling,

long before you packed a single

bag, long before your passport

gathered the stamps of far-off

places and the world opened its wide,

waiting hands.

Even as a child,

your spirit moved ahead of you

– curious, bright, a little wild –

chasing horizons no one else

could see.

You carried a wanderer’s fire,

a quiet knowing that life was meant to be

explored not from the edges,

but from the center of its

beating heart.

And then you grew into a man who walked boldly,

who stepped into foreign cities

as if they already knew your

name.

You learned the language of

people, the kindness of strangers,

the poetry of roads unplanned.

The world changed you,

and you changed parts of the

world just by passing through.

But this last journey –

the one you slipped into as you

slept –

this was the road I wasn’t ready

for you to take.

No mother ever is.

It was too soon, too silent,

too final in its arrival.

And yet…

I have to believe

you woke in a place without

borders, without fear,

without the weight you carried.

A place where God Himself

meets travelers at the gate

and says, “Rest now.

You’ve come far enough.”

I picture you wandering still –

but in light now, not in miles.

Learning landscapes I cannot

touch, walking paths made of peace,

discovering joy like a country of

its own.

And here I remain,

with grief like a heavy suitcase

I never meant to carry.

But even in this pain,

I can feel you in the quiet,

in the places we shared,

in the rhythm of a memory

that refuses to fade.

Your story didn’t end, Greg.

It simply crossed over

into another chapter

written in a different sky.

So travel, my beautiful boy –

travel with God,

travel with freedom,

travel with the wonder

you were born with.

And someday,

when my own journey is

finished,

when my feet grow tired of this

earth,

I will find you – radiant, whole,

waiting on a shore I’ve never

seen.

Until then,

I will keep your map in my heart,

your laughter in my bones,

and your love as the compass

that helps me survive this world

without you in it.

Copyright by Joy M. Mills 2025

MJM (TM)