How the tears only seem to come
when the shower’s hot water beats down on my head,
or when I’m tucked under flannel sheets, and wake up remembering
where I am now. How it is now.
Do you get that?
Would you know how grief
is a punch in the stomach
when you were expecting a kiss?
Would you tell me, “It’s all too much, just go back to bed”?
It was only a week ago, the magical 12 week marker.
I know, I counted.
Week by week by week.
Each day a little brighter. Each day, something I could hold.
“I’m just so happy,” I said.
I savored the feeling of something larger than myself.
A universe expanding inside me.
The way the wind whips through the sycamores,
the crashing pulse of waves sliding up under the overpass
watching the sunset, with him by my side.
It’s all a lot bigger than us, life and death, and who’s to say otherwise?
The crackle of wood on the fire. Sips of red wine from a plastic cups.
Notes written on slips of paper to what might have been (we love you, we’re here when you’re ready) turning to ash.
Him reaching to hold my hand in the darkness, still a family of two.
I’ve decided to use Susannah Conway’s December Reflections as daily writing prompts this month, most posts to be small poems, good or bad, posted with a photo, to help me navigate a loss I experienced in late November.
See all posts here.