Pardon me; my words are wet. They must slide through the tears I’ve grown tired of crying. Tears that pool in the bottom of my stomach.
Sometimes I am afraid my words will drown. I am more afraid of being left alone without them, so I teach them how to swim. I teach them how to survive. My words are the only reminder of who I once was before you, before us. Wet words fall out trying to wash away the silence as we settle into the den after dinner.
For a moment, I remember we were once in love. Read More
Her hands were never the same after losing my father. She’d rubbed them rough wiping tears from her eyes every night. They were calloused from opening too many jars and carrying bags of trash filled with leftovers. She'd never learned to reduce portions after years of cooking for him. The soft brown cracked with age and the unexpected physical repercussions of grief.
A year later and she still had not applied any healing ointment to her hands or heart. The roughness, instead, spread quietly up her arms with every month that passed. It crept up her neck with every long look at his photograph. It hardened her face every time she looked in the mirror and saw the empty space in the doorway that he would never darken again.
I saw love build and break my mother... Read More