a scribble of jo

I am here to see if there is a way words can restore purpose. If there is a way that the electric ricocheting of shrapnel can slow. If there is a way the deadening pressure can lift.

My love, my honeybear, has died. My best friend, my person, our homemaker and caretaker, our number one, my cheerleader and bench warmer, my rejoicer and celebrater, gone. This isn’t news–yesterday marked three months–but the rawness in the back of my throat says otherwise. It says, “This will always be news.” It says, “This will never be normal.” It says, “This will always be heavy.”

But we keep existing. Days happen. Clocks turn. Air is inhaled. Air is exhaled. Is this breathing?

My love has died. This will always be news, but the headlines have changed. This will never be normal, but this is the new standard. This will always be heavy, but we will learn how to carry it.

My love has died.