For you, Mother of an Angel

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For a while, after he was gone, I let the laundry pile. I let the clothes fall wherever they did. I left the bed unmade. I left uneaten cans of soup under couches. I let the steaks sit in the fridge. I let the coffee spill on the table. I did not worry much where I last saw coasters in the living room. I left cigarette stubs everywhere. I didn’t like the fresh scent of lavender on my furniture anymore

For a while I looked for signs every day. I thought I heard voices in my head. I heard it in the ticks of the clock. At 3 am, at 6.14 am, at midnight. I saw his face on movie tickets, on the shoehorn at Pottery Barn, on a piece of paper on the floor, on the knob of my dresser, on a Super Cut receipt, in a strawberry pie, through the dew covered windows of a moving train, on the scarf of a Snowman, on the thermostat, in my own face, my nose, my eyes.



Since my child died, I have found a voice I didn’t know I had. I cannot stand obtuse people. I hate silly and wrong opinions about things people know nothing about. I can’t stand politicians cracking jokes about allergies. I do not always need to be the conciliatory one anymore. I am not bothered what others think of me. I guess my heart has calcified and I do not know yet how it continues to beat. But it’s strange … I’ve become stronger than I ever was.


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