I have been thinking about you all day.
The day after.
It began the moment I passed the robin.
An almost spring morning.
Life assuring song on top of his lungs.
Witch hazel blooming.
The first day after death.
When you are faced with the facts that:
- the barista keeps working,
- the milk is delivered,
- the sun has risen,
- the world is still spinning.
And you, you are left behind.
Not quite at the same pace with everyone else.
Not quite in the same space with everyone else.
Still with the one who left.
Yet utterly bereft.
Hot air created foam in rich milk.
You can’t taste the pain au chocolate.
All noise is behind a thick glass wall.
One foot in front of the other going no where.
Ice cold wind slashed your face unbeknownst.
The last roar of winter passes you by.
And you, you are left behind.
Writing for Healing 