People don’t talk about things that are real. The host on the radio this morning was sad that a famous toy store is closing. People at work get upset over font sizes and parking spaces. There was some empathy over the hurricane in Houston, but it’s mostly died down. I don’t have energy for these empty things.
I was supposed to start work next week. I was supposed to be home, snuggling a tiny child. I was supposed to have a life different than the one I float through now.
I took your elephant to work today. They’re taking pictures of the house, I couldn’t bear to leave him home alone. I buried your urn under the pillows. I want to take you with me to Canada. I want to open my eyes in the morning and see you sleeping next to me. I want.
There’s a major in the office who’s pregnant. She’s doing all the things I used to do with you. She’s happy. I’m angry. I’m not angry with her. It hurts, but I don’t wish her harm. I sometimes wish she would stop talking. That’s not fair, though. It’s not like me.
I just hurt. I’m angry and I hurt, and I don’t know how to function anymore. I miss the freedom of the person I used to be, but I wouldn’t go back for anything. You are still my everything.
