All my life I've avoided emotions like the plague. I've stuffed them into a back closet where no one, not even myself could ever find them. I've never said, "I'm not okay." I've never cried in front of another person. I didn’t cry at my husbands funeral. How fucked up is that?
Yet, I am no longer my father's daughter. I feel grief in the loss of what our relationship was and grief in the relationship that will never be. I"ll never know what could have been, if he was still here.
Stories wrapped in neat bows lifted from my lips like coffee; warm and deep.
I tried one basic writing tool at a time. I only moved on to the next tool after the previous one felt comfortable and easy. Well, relatively easy. It kind of felt like I was building a bridge; each component made it stronger.
Wisps of pencil shavings floated pit like dust particles and settled into the cracks between my floorboards. "This is all I have left," I whispered to myself.
The amount of pressure I put on myself to be sure, to not have any doubt, to feel an unwavering path is too high. I've spent more than a decade pondering this, making sure, and I know who I am.
Your grave is decorated...