Returning from Bereavement Leave

I had to smile a second time.  It felt intrusive because we’d already said hello.  We used to walk with someone between us, two bags each, the size of six people.  We had to merge our walking route into 2 lanes instead of 3 and I had less bags because I didn’t feel like eating.  We learned over time to walk closer, to fill the empty space, to look at each other, to savor the nibbles of small talk.  That’s why I smiled just now, because I remembered that I haven’t been remembering.

That's what she wanted, to pour into each other’s absences and become the multitudes she is now a part of.  Flesh of many dissolved into one, something about stars and gases. I don’t like the “big picture” because I don’t like disappearing. That’s not a disorder, it’s a personality trait.

No, the doctor says, it’s not about disappearing, it’s about leaving an impact.  So now I daily trick myself that teaching children how to support a thesis means feeding the five thousand.  I can’t tell if I want to believe in Jesus again or if I’m just jealous of his impact. My mother is afraid the f-word will take her three steps closer to hell.  I’m afraid that hell doesn’t even matter.

I wash the dishes one-by-one, reliving the last conversation between us, looking for the word I wanted to complete the melody.  Later tonight I will sing it as, apparently, I breathe her in one atom at a time.