Give sorrow words. The Greif that does not speak will break a heart—–William Shakespeare
~~Insert Lady Antebellum into my CD player and sob all the way to work. Thank God I simply need to drive fifteen minutes, or I’d drown inside my own fucking tears, Thank God I can get up, apply lipstick, drink a cup of coffee, feed the cats, and get behind a steering wheel.
Thank God I’m even thanking God.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m losing my mind. I wonder how others behave when they lose the best part of who they were; the person they thought they’d grow old with, the person who knows their darkest secrets.
I wonder how others continue to exist when they walk the earth with an open wound.
I think too much, too hard, too deeply.
Are there others that exist like me; individuals who are bleeding from the inside out?
Individuals who work, grocery shop, bake brownies, make love, and smile plastic smiles, but in reality… cry, cry, cry?
I’m lost. I’m sad. I’m pathetically pathetic.
People ask, “How much longer will you mourn, grieve, lament?”
And I respond: “As long as I want to. As long as I’m able to. As long as I have an ounce of strength inside my body.”
I am wedged inside my own world like the autistic children I see at school. I am like my lovely grandma, Pearl, who, in the end, forgot her own name.
I feel too much, too hard, too deeply.
I ask my nephew—
“OOOOH, Jordan, who will I bake chocolate chip cookies with over the holidays? Who will watch “A Christmas Carol” with me? Who will love me like your mother loved me?”
He pauses for a long time. He sighs. Tears fill his lovely twenty year old eyes. And he finally says, “Me, Kim. Me.”
It’s not the large things that cause my discontent.
It’s the simple things I miss, the smallest joys I covet—
The moisture of Kay’s pink lips on my cheek, the early morning phone calls to say I’m thinking of you, the Barnes & Noble trips splitting triple pumpkin pie, the reassurance of a soul mate loving you, loving you, loving you…
And the pure pleasure of baking chocolate chip cookies during the holidays. The mixing of brown sugar, baking soda, vanilla, and the cracking of eggs. The laughter and conversation at the kitchen table anticipating the fist batch to come out of the oven.
The entire room smelling of melted chocolate, sweet butter, and God.