Yellow Hearts and Black Hair Ties

My heart is broken,
I am broken.
Putting the pieces
back together it seems
starts from the outside
and works in.
Start with the shell
So that
to the outside
I look whole.
I walk, I talk,
I sit, I work,
I speak, I laugh.

The shell of me appears.
And the world can go on.

Inside are the pieces,
tiny shards of me
rubbing, scratching,
scarring, chaffing me.
from the inside

Bringing shivers,
rawness, and strain

Constrict my throat,
burn my stomach,
pierce my heart,
These shards of me
not to be willed back together

but the shell shows no shame

 

My tears fall differently now.
They don’t well up,
they don’t crest and
then fall in drops.
They don’t create a line
down the edge of my nose
leaving the rest of me alone.
Now they stream down in sheets,
they defy gravity and
wet my eyelids and temples,
they cling to my lashes and
rest in my hair.
No longer a line down my cheek
they saturate my face
and neck, ears and chest
creating a salty crust
on my skin
as they evaporate.

Maybe you throw the razors away
Maybe you throw the wine out
Maybe you stay in bed
Maybe you avoid the water’s edge
Maybe you stay away from overpasses
Maybe you take the razors away
Maybe you throw the pills out
Maybe you stay off the balcony
Maybe you don’t be alone
Maybe you stay off the ledge
Maybe you throw the razors away

For weeks after your death the place scared me
The known, now so unknown.
What was it without you
Could I walk the aisles without you
Could I decide without you
Could I breath
Would I see you there, feel you there
Would I drown in the memories
Would I remember
Who would stroll with me, dive in with me
Who would guide me, advice me
Who would just know without saying
Could I do it alone – Why am I doing it alone

Oh. I get it now. It wasn’t Target that scared me

You are not a pigeon.
I don’t like birds so
you can’t be a pigeon
Dove? Maybe.
Some rare species? Sure.
But a pigeon, no.

Unless you are just sending pigeons
To get my attention
That would be funny
She’ll laugh, you’d think
You were right.

They sent me to church.

I know how I’m supposed to behave.
What the situation dictates.
My body knows and does
despite my heart and brain being estranged.
Here, you smile and nod
Here, you make eye contact and concentrate;
Here, you respond and decide.
Here, you encourage.
Here, you lament.
Here, you dance.
Here, you laugh.
Here you chew, swallow, and here and here, and here – you breathe.

Only when the tears come do the brain and heart know each other again.

Tentative brushes of one against the wounded other.

They started early. Hours after you were gone. On our way to Tucson to be with you, to face what? Hell? Truth, reality, each other, our past, future, despair.

No, it could only be hell.

We turned the corner into Donald and Becky’s residential tract to drop off Pepsi, your brother’s brand new kitty; the other part of what you called his “life-long dream come true”. And it was there. A white inflatable tender emblazoned with the word Sonrisa. Emblazoned because it conjures up big, bold, in your face, and it was. A big, bold, in your face, “I’m here”. I knew it, cautiously understood it, but I had to confirm.

Why do I know that name? That’s the name of Bill Seal’s boat. Does he live here? No. Why is that here? I don’t know.

My mom and dad, her grandma and grandpa, met at Seals. I know.

You are together.

It wasn’t hearing the sound of her fiancé’s voice as he tried to tell me what he couldn’t say. It wasn’t the detective telling me what I already felt. It wasn’t hearing her dad’s sobbing over the phone or watching her brother’s shaking hands as he packed a bag for her house. It wasn’t quietly collapsing on the floor in front of the toilet at the Neptune society. It wasn’t her 2 year old running to the front door to welcome mommy. It wasn’t speaking at her ‘event’ or driving her ashes home in the trunk of my car. It wasn’t getting the call that her killer was caught or my husband yelling at me he was done because I had lashed out. It wasn’t the awkward drunk hug from a man telling me good would come from it while another man, another killer’s dad, watched in turmoil. It was opening the envelope from the life insurance company containing my daughter’s life insurance check. In hindsight, that is when I gave in.