I will never know exactly how she died. I can write her death a thousand times and still come no closer to understanding what happened on November 19, 2013. I can only write around the edges of her ghost.
I know she died. That is the truth of the thing that shudders inside my body. This desire to investigate is an attempt to distract from that knowing.
Grief does not leave our bodies. Oh, if I could open up my chest, I would take you to the dark space inside my second heart. Do you see her? She is cowering in the corner, guarded by other monsters I cannot yet face.
We grow around the hurt, it is not displaced. The unbearable pain is compacted but retains its weight.
I have a good life. There are joy and dogs and perfectly made cups of coffee. I watch bad movies with my closest friend and eat popcorn in the dark. I sing off-key and do a little dance when Josh makes banana pancakes. Charlotte snores at our feet and tries to kiss my face when I give her a treat. These are things that have surrounded that dark, tender spot I am still afraid to touch.
I wake up in the middle of the night and have to check if Josh is still breathing. I place my shaking hand on his chest and wait for an exhalation.
I will never be a light thing. This is what I know.
