Writing once more~
I sit in the grass; my hand aimlessly playing with a single blade. Running through my fingers; smooth. The grass is longer now. The bees slowly fly off from the basil, one by one, as the temperature begins to drop. Their work is not done, but the night is coming. Birds fly overhead. My breath begins to cloud in front of me; tiny storms promising rain.
I wait for her to come. I wait for her to come crashing through the undergrowth, lithe as a cheetah, but careless as a bear. I wait for her to run up to me and try and eat the grass out of my hand. I wait for her to drag her mouth across my jeans, covering them with water from her last drink. I wait for her.
But she’s not going to come. The garden no longer expects her. Her pathways of destruction through garden beds are overgrown with grass and kidney weed. Her water bowls are gone, along with her toys, to some dusty place in the shed. The birds no longer expect her. They slowly returned to the garden, no longer expecting reprimand in the form of chases and barks. My house that once felt safe with her presence is now dark, no longer comforting but instead filled with ghosts that I cannot touch. The ghosts mock me with their presence. They mock me with their invisibility. They mock me because they have her and I don’t.
I crane my neck around in the rooms she used to inhabit. The family room is relatively danger-free now, without her underfoot. The dining room, where her bed used to reside, seems cold and unforgiving without her sleeping presence. I no longer have to organise myself around her in my own bed when I take naps, but I do it in my sleep anyway. Her memory looks out at me from under tables, around doors; darkness. I wait for her.
She didn’t have to die. I don’t want the thoughts that crowd my mind when I think of her. They stab at me, slice my internal organs to shreds. My heart has so far been protected by its own stupid form of denial. It encases itself with thoughts of other families playing with her; her new life in a new home. My reality becomes so warped that I can no longer feel who I am radiating from my soul. My soul has given up trying to make me see reason. Bruises cover my bones. Blood seeps through pale innocent thoughts. The thoughts rip at my mind.
I feel a bit better from writing this. I might write more. Please, if you can get past the sadness, tell me what you think.