I stand and stare at you in the moments after you stop living; there are no more words to say to you, under my breath. I can no longer pretend or hope or believe or pray that you can hear me, that you can smile somewhere deep inside at the sound of my voice, and be glad that I’m with you at the end. I resent you for it; for not saying goodbye, for cutting free so unilaterally.
So, for me, an unsurprising choice this week, when we are invited to write about the difficult or spicy subjects that we tend to swerve, given half the chance. Death yet again is my theme. The death of my dad. Today in particular has been pretty bad. There’s no rhyme, no reason for it. That’s grief, I guess. Tomorrow will be different, I know.
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