Winter's bitter bullets

Winter’s bitter bullets are loosing their grip on the ground. Birds have returned to the meadow. I can hear their song. Can you? I gave a speech on how to act when someone dies. If a pin had dropped, I would have heard it fall. And then they all clapped. I wonder if any of them learned anything? If my words will encourage them to attend the next memorial that rears its ugly head into their busy schedules.

There was standing room only at your memorial. Did you realize how loved you were?

I digress. I feel like I’m wearing tap shoes and dancing through your death. Sometimes it’s a soft shuffle and sometimes it’s a jazzy reverberation driven on by tears that exhausts me. Last night I went to bed by 8 p.m.

I haven’t seen any signs of you lately, although I try to remain open to for that experience. I’m studying parental grief for my senior research project, and that has helped. Everyone I’ve asked wants to participate, and they all want to attend my presentation. It’s very touching.

But nothing takes away the hole your death has created. Like a giant vacuum that sucks away at my core.

I think about you everyday, Nik. And I miss your smile.