Hand in hand

I walk with my mother

through the streets

of my hometown,

the church bells that accompanied my childhood

now taking on a different tone.

The pale pink lens of my youth darkened, 

now more of a deep red—

like a rose,

thorns protruding,

finger throbbing;

at least the red of our blood

is always the same.

Life exists in duality: 

everything we have to lose

is something else worth fighting for,

there is no summer without the winter,

there is no light without the dark.

Every start has an end–

–I know, I KNOW!

Yet all the philosophy in the world,

all the literature,

can’t prepare me for reality.

For the existence of non existence,

for the finality  

of never hearing your voice again.

never never never NEVER

is a word I simply cannot comprehend.

For a fleeting moment, 

I think that I’ve grasped its meaning,

but it slips through my shaky fingers–

falling

through 

the

cracks

you left behind.

Life changes so quickly, 

yet it moves 

so 

slow.

I hate that I can’t stop it,

can’t stop the tears from escaping 

as I sit by your bedside.

No one tries to tell me

that “it’ll be ok”

cause we all know that it won’t. 

We all know

that grief is inevitable 

when you love.

And I love.

So. 

Frustratingly.

Much.

All I can do

is squeeze my mother’s hand

and force crisp air through my lungs,

let it fill my chest even when yours sits eternally still.

I pretend to understand 

why—

From a distance, 

crying sounds a lot like laughter, 

our voices 

carried by the wind

join the chorus 

of children playing, 

echoing

through the streets of my hometown.