Loss is a funny thing.
It creeps up on you when you least expect it, surging up like a wave that never showed on the horizon: a sudden tide of the coldest feelings, beginning from the base of your stomach and ascending all the way up to your head, dizzy and breathless, surprised by the change of temperature your tears will cause. Unstoppable. If you're lucky, you've found someone to share it with, someone who will not ask questions when he sees the wave rippling its way over you, someone who will drop the grocery bags on the floor and hug you tightly, without a word, because you're drowning.
I'm trying my best not to think of you, to pretend you didn't exist, or that you still do, that you're just there behind the table, the black spot I catch out of the corner of my eye, wrapped up in your usual furry and grumpy self. Denial is not a fine balance, it's a eschewed state of suffering, caught between escaping the guilt and remembering someone we loved so much that we loved them daily, without big shows of affection or second thought, with every day grievances and a little bit of impatience. The kind of love that does not presuppose an ending, or that we cannot talk about with our friends, because they will not understand it. Without you, I feel more alone than I ever did - and although I know you're not coming back, I will keep leaving the back door open. Until one day (I hope soon) when I don't think of you anymore when I close it.
Loss is a funny thing.
.JPG)
