How This Poem Began
Some of my best writing starts with a small nudge. This one came from my good friend Dr Shweta Langhe, who sent me a post from the writers’ community page. The challenge was simple and tricky at the same time:
If you’re a writer, write “I waited.” Without writing “I waited.”
The idea is to show waiting without naming it. Waiting doesn’t always look like standing at a door. Sometimes it’s watching a clock, studying a face, or holding someone a little tighter because you sense time moving. That is the kind of waiting I wrote about.
Shweta has been a great support in promoting my book, and she is a fitness enthusiast who looks after her health with real dedication. I admire people who treat their time and their bodies with that kind of care, and perhaps that’s why the poem turned toward presence and holding on to the people we love.
The Poem
A Sorrow Before Goodbye
There’s a sorrow that comes before goodbye,
A quiet ache that never tells you why.
It sits beside you, soft and slow,
And teaches your heart what it fears to know.
You hold them close a little more,
As if your arms could guard the door.
You laugh with them, but somewhere deep,
You count the moments you can keep.
You notice things you once ignored,
Their tired smile, their voice, their words.
The way they breathe, the way they stay,
The little things that fade away.
And every ordinary night
Begins to feel too short, too bright.
You watch the clock, you watch their face,
Afraid that time will steal their place.
You don’t know what you’re grieving yet,
But somehow, you can feel regret.
A future sorrow, dressed in blue,
Already waiting there for you.
So you collect each passing sound,
Each little piece of love you’ve found.
Their laughter, touch, the things they say,
You hide them where they can’t decay.
Because the cruelest part of loss
Is loving something you can’t stop.
And sometimes grief begins to grow
Long before we’re forced to let them go.
So tonight, while they’re still near,
You hold them close against the fear.
And silently, beneath the light,
You love them like you’ll lose them tonight.
Writing “I Waited” Without Saying It
The challenge asks you to show a feeling rather than state it, and waiting turned out to be everywhere in this poem:
- “You watch the clock, you watch their face” is waiting for time to move, and dreading that it will.
- “A future sorrow… already waiting there for you” is grief waiting ahead of you.
- “You count the moments you can keep” is waiting turned into a countdown.
The poem never says “I waited”, but the whole thing is a wait: for a goodbye you hope never comes.
What Is Anticipatory Grief?
The poem is about what psychologists call anticipatory grief: the sadness, fear and longing we feel before a loss actually happens. It can come when a loved one is ill or ageing, when a relationship is changing, or sometimes just from a sudden awareness that nothing lasts forever.
It is hard to name. As the poem says, “You don’t know what you’re grieving yet, but somehow, you can feel regret.”
Common signs include:
- Holding loved ones a little tighter than before
- Noticing small details, like a smile, a voice or a habit, that you once took for granted
- Feeling that ordinary evenings pass too quickly
- Quietly counting the moments you have left
- A background sadness that arrives without an obvious cause
None of this means something is wrong with you. It is love, paying attention.
Why We Collect Small Moments
One of my favourite lines to write was “You hide them where they can’t decay.” When we fear losing someone, we become collectors of moments: a laugh, a touch, the way someone says our name. Memory becomes the place where love is stored safely.
This is why ordinary days matter most. The big occasions get photographed, but the real treasure is a regular night, a shared dinner or a quiet conversation. These are the moments we later wish we could replay.
Loving Fully While They Are Here
The poem ends with an invitation, not a warning: “So tonight, while they’re still near, you hold them close against the fear.”
Anticipatory grief, painful as it is, can teach us to be more present. A few gentle ways to carry that forward:
- Put the phone down during time with loved ones.
- Say the thing you keep meaning to say.
- Record the small things: voices, recipes, handwriting, stories.
- Look after yourself. Health, movement, rest and routine give you the strength to show up for the people you love. My friend Shweta lives by this.
- Talk about the fear with someone you trust, or a counsellor if it feels heavy.
A Closing Thought
Grief and love are made of the same material. The sorrow that comes before goodbye is just love that already knows how precious its object is.
If this poem spoke to you, try the challenge yourself: write “I waited” without writing “I waited.” Then share this with someone you’re grateful to have in your life, and tell them so tonight.
Thank you, Shweta, for sharing the challenge that started this poem.
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