My heart is shredding into tiny pieces of glass…
little slivers -such sharp splinters of cutting glass –
My throat is closing
No words can make it out-
never mind breath.
My eyes are glazing over.
I can’t see anything but last year.
Last year’s sky.
Last year’s sun.
Last year’s clock on the wall and the minutes and the seconds tick tocking away.
My skin is thin.
So thin you can see through it.
So thin it burns when you look at me.
It sizzles when you talk to me.
It rips when you touch me.
Please don’t do any of those things.
But don’t forget me.
Oh… unfortunately you already have.
You started to forget me when I told you he was dying.
You started to back away when I said he might only have days left.
Once he was gone…
once my world came to a screeching HALT…
you were gone with everyone else –
and it was silent.
And it was empty.
And you said you had no idea what to do.
And YOU said you had no idea what to say.
And you, you, you and you said nothing at all.
Never heard from you again.
It was dark with the SUN screaming “HELLO! It’s only quarter to 10 in the morning!!”
and my little girl was holding his dead, but still warm, hand singing a song that goes like this:
“I hope you can hear me… I remember it clearly… the day you slipped away…”
and we are there…
me and a 4-month-old baby
and him or his body and my 6-year-old girl for 2 hours before anyone else showed up.
Kenny was there.
He had to leave.
He had to go back to work.
I could still be in that room. I think I am still in that room… I don’t think I can get out of that room.
The day you went away.
Photo @Elizabeth Regen All Rights Reserved