A Year After Your Death

A year after your death I still run into you in unexpected places.

Once, shopping, I saw you two aisles over. You were laughing and talking with someone I didn’t know. I called out to you but you didn’t answer me. I wanted to run to you, to grab your arm and turn you around, to MAKE you look at me but I didn’t.

I’m glad I didn’t.

Because you are dead.

I saw you once in the back seat of a car at a gas station. You had your head leaned against the window and you were crying. I couldn’t hear you, but I knew. I’ve seen the way your shoulders shake when you cry. And I saw the tears on your cheeks. I wanted to run to you again, to open the door, to drag you out and hold you until the tears were gone and you were happy.

But I couldn’t have made you happy.

Because you are dead.

One time you were in our house. You were standing over me while I slept and you had the sweetest smile on your face. My darling, darling guardian angel. You looked like you wanted to reach for me, to touch me. To make me happy again.

But you didn’t.

Because you are dead.

I cannot touch you because you are dead.

You cannot touch me becasue you are dead.

A year after your death, and sometimes that is still hard to remember.


Lisa said...

I've seen your writing on "Writers in the Mist." Thought I'd stop by your blog. Just wanted to comment that I like your writing.

Have you been published anywhere yet?

Keep on writing!
Take care!
ps-don't know if you've visited my site but I think you'd like it. I also have a contest running for first newbie who posts and links to my blog.

C. H. Green said...

This post was me. I still see my mother everywhere. I still hear her in the voices of people around me. I like to think these instances are reminders of her love for me.
Thanks for caring.

Julie Jordan Scott said...

Dear Winona,

I love this piece - I am coming up on the anniversary of my daughter's death and this piece was oddly affirming.

Thank you -