Stuck in neutral, gunning the engine. I want to do, go, achieve, finish, start – and I am instead sitting in front of my computer, doing the same meaningless actions over and over again, letting time unravel and trying to avoid the cave-in, the feelings around, the pressure of, the immensity of loss.
His presence, him, he is not here. Pictures don’t bring him back. Memories fail, and fall into things better left alone, for now, and the gulf between us – oh, how wide it is, and how very far away he is. If he is at all.
“He is always with you.” No, he’s not. His half of the bed is not slept in. His wedding ring is on the dresser. His car is in the driveway; it has not moved. He is not here. He is not here. He is not here.