the morning

I feel your presence when the wind whips through my hair, billowing your shirt tails about my waist. I confiscated the gray one with black checkers and short sleeves along with your pajama bottoms. Comfort clothes. They don’t smell like you anymore, but still. Your essence lingers.
The birds frolic in the yard, dive-bombing, dancing, playing tag. The General, a red winged blackbird, perches on top of the bird feeder Aunt Jenny and Grandma bought for your memorial garden. A regal fellow, commanding presence, piercing song, who picks out the black sunflower seeds, scattering everything else on the ground.

I long to run my hands through your thick hair and listen to you play the bass. Sometimes, this wretched ache in my heart threatens to devour me. Sometimes, I want to let go and join you. Sometimes, I crawl in my bed in the middle of the day, and my tears fill the pillow and I have to turn it over or I’ll drown.

And then, I go outside and dig up rocks, catching their edges on the shovel head, prying them from the ground, lugging them in the wheel barrow, and fitting them in the walkway like the pieces of a puzzle. Two strawberries have ripened, and the blueberries thicken on the bushes. The work, monotonous yet somehow soothing, seems to smooth over my rough edges. It helps me sleep at night.

I hugged you in my dreams. You were tall and golden, whole and happy. You laughed, and I danced in your shadow.

Daylight pierces through the drapes; white wisps of clouds coat an otherwise blue sky, and the swallows continue their waltz, wild and free, innocent.

I miss you.