Empty

Sometimes, in the middle of a fine day. A day when you roast pumpkin seeds and rake leaves and make yourself a turkey sandwich. Just a day. The grief comes out of nowhere. Catches you so unprepared, so unaware and so defenseless that it sends you to the ground. Shaking and weak and crushed all over again. Wishing it wasn't happening, wishing he was still here, hearing his voice in your head as you crumble to the ground because your legs can't hold you any longer. Logic leaves. Reason follows and you are left unable to breathe. Unable to see or smell- so wrapped up in memory as if he was right there whispering, "it's good to have you home, boo".... and you simply die all over again.

All you can do is pick yourself up, off the shower floor, wrap yourself in a towel and cry. Weep for what isn't. Weep until the trembling subsides and you wait for the next wave. Hope exhaustion catches you in the meantime. Hear the voices in your head telling you to breathe.... and try to listen. You know time heals. You know you have to own the loss before you can let it go.

Sometimes, there isn't enough strength to bear the weight. And hollow, you take to your bed. Hoping you have poured enough of the poison out to let sleep take you.