This is a little piece of writing I wrote on grief. I previously posted it on another website called Southern Gothic Productions (www.sogopro.com) but they don't have any rights to it. Hope you enjoy it.
Unaware of the happenings around me, I pull the blankets over my head and lie, in silence.
Instinctively my hand reaches to his side of the bed
Another wave of grief bears down on me. I nestle into my pillow and draw the blanket up higher.
I turn my focus to the rise and fall of my chest, the scratchy feel of wool against my skin, the heaviness of my eyelids and I try to will myself to sleep.
I long to be numb.
Sweet seductress that is sleep, take me.
But the question that has been stalking my conscience rudely interrupts.
“How could he leave without taking me with him?”...
“I loved him…I still.. love him”
The use of past tense in death angers me. The feelings do not disappear. They are still present and very real. Not distant, not past, as the tense would suggest.
As I have already allowed myself this thought. I go one step more and play back my favourite memories. Keenly aware of the gripping pain this will cause later and of the plans that we will never realise together, yet too selfish in the moment to stop myself.
Created: Jan 05, 2010Document Media