Brown Bird XLVI

Yesterday was the first good day in more than two weeks. I ran on sixty minutes of sleep, had lunch with colleagues, and had a one-on-one with a mentor that went well, all things considered. At least, I’m pretty sure it did. By the time I got home, I collapsed into sleep. I woke up at two in the morning when my elbow clipped an open white monster that was sitting on a footstool by the couch next to your bed. I panicked, hoping that I hadn’t messed up your bed. Paper towels were nearby from post-tattoo care, and I got it up quickly. Your bed was fine, just a little damp on the outside edge. But for the first time in weeks, I had to move it. I didn’t have to tell you to move to do it. I stopped cleaning, and the wave crashed over me. We didn’t get to celebrate today… After a good day, you were always there to cheer me on. To get overwhelmed with me, to eat bad food, and stay up too late. In that moment, I felt whatever it is inside me that makes me, me, collapse into a ball inside me and start screaming all over again. My heart sank, and I felt myself slide back into square one as your absence hit me all over again as if it had just happened. I couldn’t stop it. I tried to stop it. I felt ashamed for simply trying to stop it in the first place. Three cigarettes and the tears just kept coming. I surrendered and accepted that this isn’t getting better, and it likely never will. I let the undertow of the wave drown me. Then it stopped. The storm passed, and I was left on the shore choking on salt and sand again. Except—nothing felt better; I wasn’t magically whole again; you’re still gone; I’m still here…alone…with this hole where you used to be.