It has been one month and two days since you died.
One month, one week, and six days since I last spoke to you.
This does not get easier.
Somehow I can go hours without remembering that I exist in a world where you do not and then all at once it hits me—the crushing weight that is your absence.
Sad is not a big enough word for what I am feeling nor grieving, mourning, bereavement. I used to find solace in words and language and how, so perfectly, the combination of certain phrases could serve as a synopsis for emotion.
It’s like hanging your clothes on the line just as a storm shows itself on the horizon.
Or like running out of gas 2 miles outside of town.
Like planting potatoes, spending hours digging up the dirt, tending to the crop, and finding that it did not yield a single spud.
It’s like trying to breathe deep but gasping on the air. I wonder if I, too, am having a heart attack.
It’s like missing you.