Posted on | February 27, 2012 | 14 Comments
It is a gray day in Macon.
The sky is cloudy, dripping rain like the tears I’m not allowed to shed, not at work, not at home.
We made our way out of bed slowly this morning, J and I, tip-toeing through our morning quietly, wondering when the axe would fall, when the news would come. Because the news is coming. It seems the world turns in anguish today, cradling the soft sweetness of her soul in it’s arms, knowing that she is soon to leave.
I took a shower in the hottest water I could stand, scalding the hurt from my skin, whispering prayers of peace and comfort into the spray. She is leaving. Stepping out onto the cold floor shot an awakening into my eyes, a jolt stronger than coffee, a reminder harsher than other Mondays.
She is leaving.
My heart aches to be at her side, holding her hand, soothing her passing. My soul yearns to walk with hers again, to rewind time, to play side-by-side on the warm beaches of our youth, building castles and searching for shells. I ache to hear her voice on the phone, see her words, feel her warmth. She who has been my rock for nine months; she who has been the voice I turned to when everything was falling apart.
Because she knew what it meant for everything to fall apart.
Because she knew that one of us would be whole again; one of us would see our child grow and learn and become the person, the adult he would grow to be. One of us.
But not her.
She is leaving.
It is a gray, gray day in Macon, and my heart yearns to lay with hers.