Something

Something will happen, you say. You won’t be who you thought you’d permanently be. You’ll become him. His grief struck, and he asked why you were still here. You pulled away because you had to. You’ll imitate him. Hardening. No compassion for other humans and their complaints. Because you’ve lost all you had.

Something has happened, you say. You don’t smile. You keep to yourself. Is this the new you? Is this who you’ll be for the second half of your life? There’s a selfishness that accompanies grief. You’re sad for you. Not for them. Because they’re supposed to be at peace. But what about you? How are you going to dance with mother nature while you’ve lost your own?

They’re in God’s hands now. People move on. They treat loss as a change of the season. But you? Look at your heart. Your left ventricle has swelled like a balloon. You’re not you anymore. Come back to the you who carried the light for everyone. The kind you. The you who people took for granted.

There was only one person who could do this to you. To tell you uneasy truths in ways that made your branches thrive. To calm you. To encourage you to rest before you were ready to release yourself into the world again. You open the door. Anything can happen between this breath and the next.

Something is happening, you say. Your love is emptying. A red rivulet flowing from your palms, discoloring the rugs. The house overflows. Everything dissolves. There is nothing left in you. Yet, this isn’t the end. There are more places to visit. More people to meet. More devastations. More commitments. And you will stand. You have to.