We walk around the man-made lake and talk about how you died.
It’s been three years, and it doesn’t feel like it except when it does.
Mom says despite our sadness, maybe you went when you did for a reason.
You were so joyous, so social. You would have really struggled during the pandemic. (There’s a pandemic.)
You kept Grandpa young. You wouldn’t have coped well with his Parkinson’s worsening. (It’s really gotten worse.)
Mom’s search for meaning comforts me for a moment.
Yet I also think about how you weren’t here for my graduation, for when I traveled to Japan, and Italy, and Spain, and Portugal, and when I bought a house, and when I started medical school, and when my boyfriend proposed, and when we decided we’re not the marriage type, or when my cat died, or when your favorite dog got sick, or when my brother had another episode, or all of the holidays, and birthdays, and Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays.
So, it doesn’t make sense again. I do not believe that it ever will.
Losing you is not a lesson. It can’t be summarized and repeated, and it can’t be understood.
It is a wound that I feel when I look for sleep, and its pain only weakens as the time passes for no other reason but that time has passed.
I think of you in sunflowers, in rabbits, washcloths, deviled eggs and enamel baking dishes.
I mourn you always. These pages could wrap around forever.
It’s been three years, and it doesn’t feel like it except when it does.
Mom says despite our sadness, maybe you went when you did for a reason.
You were so joyous, so social. You would have really struggled during the pandemic. (There’s a pandemic.)
You kept Grandpa young. You wouldn’t have coped well with his Parkinson’s worsening. (It’s really gotten worse.)
Mom’s search for meaning comforts me for a moment.
Yet I also think about how you weren’t here for my graduation, for when I traveled to Japan, and Italy, and Spain, and Portugal, and when I bought a house, and when I started medical school, and when my boyfriend proposed, and when we decided we’re not the marriage type, or when my cat died, or when your favorite dog got sick, or when my brother had another episode, or all of the holidays, and birthdays, and Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays.
So, it doesn’t make sense again. I do not believe that it ever will.
Losing you is not a lesson. It can’t be summarized and repeated, and it can’t be understood.
It is a wound that I feel when I look for sleep, and its pain only weakens as the time passes for no other reason but that time has passed.
I think of you in sunflowers, in rabbits, washcloths, deviled eggs and enamel baking dishes.
I mourn you always. These pages could wrap around forever.
