Tuesday, February 21, 2012

The thing that I loved most about working the night shift was that I would come home so exhausted that I could crawl into bed and fall right asleep.

I am not a good sleeper. I have never been a good sleeper. I lay in bed, planning out conversations that I will have, that I should have had, that I wish I could erase and repeat. I think about interviews and meals that I want to cook. I pray. I try to prepare for every possible scenario, so that I can be ready for the morning.

I am wide awake, trying to prepare for the next step. I am not sad, nor am I scared. But I keep hoping that if I stay up long enough, I will be able to face whatever comes next.

I want to know what tomorrow will bring. I'd rather wait awake than be woken in surprise.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

My grief is quiet, nearly silent. It is drowned out by the words and tears of your parents, your siblings, your friends, your coworkers. It finds me in the middle of the night, in secluded corners, on long car rides.

Most days, I keep you out of my thoughts. It's easier not to remember you because then I don't miss you. It's easier to forget. It's easier to deny that there is a dull, heavy ache in my heart, right where you used to live. If I forget to remember you, I don't need to mourn never seeing you get married or the fact that my children will grow up never knowing yours.

The unfairness of losing you will never lose its sting. It will always be at the forefront of my feelings for you. I am not simple-minded enough to convert my grief into nostalgia. I am unwilling to deny the anger and confusion that I feel every single time I remember that you died at twenty-four, all of your goals unaccomplished, all of your dreams unrealized. There is nothing natural or correct about the way that you were taken.

I miss you. I will never stop missing you. I may never accept the way that you left us. I may never outgrow this grief.