Here is one of the worst things about having someone you love die: It happens again every single morning.—Anna Quindlen
In the beginning, there was you.
You loving me. You interwoven inside my being.
You never judging my bad judgment. You hurrying to my house on 61st and Cody when I lost my job, my uterus, my mind.
You soothing, encouraging, inspiring, grabbing my hand and whispering, “Lets give it to the King, Kimmy.” And we’d hold hands while you prayed.– “God, show my sister the true healer, the ultimate physician.”
Nobody ever appreciated me like you. Nobody ever believed in me like you. Never. Again.
I haven’t seen your face for 1702 days, my darling.
That face smiling massively as I pulled up in my Kia for our weekend walks on the Waterfront Trail. That face standing on my front porch Christmas Eve holding your famous overflowing with bacon-molasses-baked beans. That face laughing so hard and fiercely that you peed your pants when you poured two cups of salt into your cake mixture instead of two cups of sugar, then asking, ever-so-sweetly, “Is that too salty?”
O’ God O’ God O’ God
It’s been a time of shitty shadows & sharp claws.
It’s been a time of reflection & vibrant light.
I miss telling you my secrets.
For example, I went quite insane after your execution. I tried to become an alcoholic, but I hated not remembering. I tried to become suicidal, but the love on earth was more powerful than death. I tried reading your journals, but every page, every sentence was fire and remorse and discontentment.
I wrote words to fill the void. I wrote syllables to ease the sting.
I fucking wrote
I kept writing and writing until even my organs emptied out.
There will never be enough words to make me whole again.
I love you I love you I love you I miss you I miss you I miss you
Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, my heart thrusts so loudly that it startles me.
I know it’s a reminder, just in case I’ve forgotten, that I’m Alive.
And here’s another secret you may not know, Kay; I’m living without you, but you’re still here, your soft pink cheek pressed against my cheek.
You see, that’s the thing about dying, you’re never really gone. The love remains inside, outside, and in-between everything you do.
I find that astonishingly, amazingly beautiful. Don’t you?
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