04-16-2017, 04:37 PM
I can’t breathe. I can’t be here today, can’t walk aimlessly around our home and see my dad’s ghost haunting every rise and hollow, feel him lingering under the shade of every tree, hear his voice in the wind as it blows through the canopy, as it weaves through the trunks and tangles in my hair. I can’t take it, not today, not again.
So I go. Mom’s with Uncle Kade, and thank heaven for him. He’s been her rock, been there for both of us the way he’s always been. Holding us close and letting us grieve. Mom doesn’t really have anybody else, just him and me, but I? I’ve got someone to run to when the world falls apart, or at least another place that feels like home. One that doesn’t hold echoes of my dad’s smile, or those blue eyes of his so soft and sweet, or memories of his arms around me or the way he used to pet my hair.
I leave Mom to Uncle Kade, leave her in his capable hands, and I run. Because somehow running makes it hurt a little less, makes my lungs burn and my legs burn and my eyes burn from the wind instead of from tears, makes my heart pound from exertion instead of breaking under the weight of loss. Under the weight of goodbye. I run until a different forest surrounds me in its earthy embrace, trees wrapping themselves around me and tucking me in close and hiding me from anyone’s eyes, hiding me so I can curl up in the dark and let the tears fall alone.
Just a little farther. Hold it together just a little longer. Don’t let anyone see you cry, don’t let them know how goodbye feels like a knife lodged in your chest, slicing into you with every breath, every twist, every sad, aching hug or soft, comforting touch. Keep it together for one more step, and another, and another.
And I manage it, too. Somehow, even though sorrow’s implacable hands are wrapped around my throat in a death grip, even though my chest is heavy with grief, even though breathing feels impossible and my vision blurs with tears, I make it to the mouth of that familiar cave and duck my head inside before my tears start to fall.
If only just.
Quiet, so quiet, even now afraid someone will hear me while I pour my sorrow out on the cave floor at my feet, spilling like blood down my cheeks, my chest, landing in little splashes on the hard packed dirt. Too worn and weary even to stand, I curl up against the wall and slowly slide down, settling in a little heap tucked away just out of sight of the cave entrance.
Just a little break, just a few moments to give into the heartache that’s trying so desperately to drown me, and then I can go back and be strong again. Be brave again. For my mom, who’s tried so hard for so long to be strong enough and brave enough for both of us. Whose hurt is so big and so deep, I don’t think she could bear another drop of it in the ocean already fighting to drown her. Uncle Kade helps her keep her head above water. The least I can do is not make that water rise higher.
So I go. Mom’s with Uncle Kade, and thank heaven for him. He’s been her rock, been there for both of us the way he’s always been. Holding us close and letting us grieve. Mom doesn’t really have anybody else, just him and me, but I? I’ve got someone to run to when the world falls apart, or at least another place that feels like home. One that doesn’t hold echoes of my dad’s smile, or those blue eyes of his so soft and sweet, or memories of his arms around me or the way he used to pet my hair.
I leave Mom to Uncle Kade, leave her in his capable hands, and I run. Because somehow running makes it hurt a little less, makes my lungs burn and my legs burn and my eyes burn from the wind instead of from tears, makes my heart pound from exertion instead of breaking under the weight of loss. Under the weight of goodbye. I run until a different forest surrounds me in its earthy embrace, trees wrapping themselves around me and tucking me in close and hiding me from anyone’s eyes, hiding me so I can curl up in the dark and let the tears fall alone.
Just a little farther. Hold it together just a little longer. Don’t let anyone see you cry, don’t let them know how goodbye feels like a knife lodged in your chest, slicing into you with every breath, every twist, every sad, aching hug or soft, comforting touch. Keep it together for one more step, and another, and another.
And I manage it, too. Somehow, even though sorrow’s implacable hands are wrapped around my throat in a death grip, even though my chest is heavy with grief, even though breathing feels impossible and my vision blurs with tears, I make it to the mouth of that familiar cave and duck my head inside before my tears start to fall.
If only just.
Quiet, so quiet, even now afraid someone will hear me while I pour my sorrow out on the cave floor at my feet, spilling like blood down my cheeks, my chest, landing in little splashes on the hard packed dirt. Too worn and weary even to stand, I curl up against the wall and slowly slide down, settling in a little heap tucked away just out of sight of the cave entrance.
Just a little break, just a few moments to give into the heartache that’s trying so desperately to drown me, and then I can go back and be strong again. Be brave again. For my mom, who’s tried so hard for so long to be strong enough and brave enough for both of us. Whose hurt is so big and so deep, I don’t think she could bear another drop of it in the ocean already fighting to drown her. Uncle Kade helps her keep her head above water. The least I can do is not make that water rise higher.