his death anniversary is nearing two years. two years of sewing up my torn clothing, of wiping the dust off my head, of my shaved head growing back in. two years of fuming at drivers, of him commandeering my remembered sleep, of quotidian tears welling but rarely releasing.
words falling out from the lips of the matriarch, etched in crystal grey matter, vision blurring throat burning ears ringing, aching for one last fivestarred prepubescent neck.
i suppose i feel some sort of survivors guilt. often i find myself asking why i was able to work through my dark tunnel, and he had to succumb to it. quickly it turns to sorry and empathy, my dear couldn’t bear holding out any longer, and that i understand. i don’t know if the weight of grieving him will ever lighten, and i don’t think i ever want it to. he was a strong man, who leaves a strong absence.