Tuesday, January 3, 2017

An Honest Day


It’s a day like any other day.
I plan this week’s meals, make a grocery list and finish my coffee.
I put on galoshes and drive to the store, 10 miles in the rain. 
I check the eggs, weigh the apples, and decide against salmon. Maybe next week.
It’s a day like any other day. Only sadder.

After I put away the groceries
and drive 14 miles to the gym, I
work up a sweat and wait for the endorphins to kick in.
They don’t always, despite the hype.

I get home and pull the condolence cards out of the mailbox.
Reading through them makes me feel better and
Worse at the same time. 
So I cry.
I cry and wonder how my daughter-in-law is and 
what my grandchildren are doing.

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past
41 days since my son took his last breath,
Since I felt his skin grow cool under my hand,
Since I kissed his forehead for each of his grandparents, his uncles, his aunts,
I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past
41 days since I finally let go of hope.

Crying is now part of my daily routine.
I take time for it.
It’s a day like any other day, only sadder.
And dinner still needs to be made.