She roams the rooms, sometimes a shaft of sun, or shadow out of step with light or dark. Sometimes I see her, nod my head, think nothing strange of altered space.
When she sleeps upon my chest, her weight can shatter my pretense that everything is fine. In her eyes, I see the ones I love and lost to death, to distances. They smile at me as though it’s only yesterday.
She doesn’t mean to interfere. She’s only a reminder that my grief will never go away, but I survive the breaking and the sorrow every day.
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