It’s the ache of having had and now being without.
It’s the injustice of having been robbed of something dear, taken without your permission.
It’s the trauma of a moment, a diagnosis, a point of no return that wounds and scars your heart, your soul, your mind.
It’s the knowledge that nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome juxtaposed with the wondering if you did everything you could have done and should have done.
It’s the restlessness of not having any answers.
It’s the conflict without resolution.
It’s where I’m stuck.
It’s why I’ve been silent in words written and words spoken.
My body is in forward motion. The world still spins. Time still passes by the second, the minute, the hour, the day, the week, the month.
My feet keep moving, circling this uncharted territory. I’m left behind—no map, no reference point.
They’re all still.
They’re all silent.
I fear jostling any of them out of their reverie.
Of accepting the reality I’m still not ready to face.
To learn how to live with the absence that consumes my thoughts.
My words are still present tense.
I choke on past tense.
I can’t move her there yet.
If I do, I’ve lost something. Someone.
A vital piece of my own history, my own story.
Our shared story.
Our shared history.
So I sit. Silent. Holding myself in this shadowy valley, longing to turn back toward what was but is no more, unsure of what lies ahead and not ready to put forth the effort to start moving toward higher ground.
Denying the absence.
Questioning the reasons.
Stifling the anger.
Avoiding the breakdown.
The silence screams at me, willing me to break it, to find a balance between grief and joy, begging me to celebrate the good and process the ugly, to live in the light when everything seems dark.
It’s the dissonance where I reside.
It’s the silence that needs breaking.