I tried to run away yesterday. Every piece of me wants to be elsewhere. Every part.
I think about running away. I think about starting a new life, where people don’t know, where they don’t stare at me with pity in their eyes. I think about being useful again. I think about having a purpose and routine. I am so tempted.
But no — I’m not ready yet. Not so soon, so far. I think I could, but I wouldn’t be me. My heart wouldn’t be committed. I wouldn’t be healed. I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to finish missing you.
I miss you. I hold this bear I thought was silly, and I miss you. Every moment. Every day.
When I start to lose myself, I remind me, “I have a son.” You exist. You remind me. Sometimes I repeat it. You are my son. I am a mother.
I’m not ready to run away.