Five days since I’ve seen Honey, yet I see her a thousand times a day.
My grief is beginning its metamorphesus. I am crying less often, though my cheeks still feel constantly wet. My eyes still worn and depleted.
In place of the shellshocked random tearful outbursts that plagued me, however, I now have a little more control but I wear this dark, wet, heavy blanket around my body that acts as a constant drain. Its weight compresses on my lungs to such a degree that each breath is painfully shallow yet deep and each exhalation sends all of my core muscles into spasm at the effort and expectation of yet another belaboured breath to start the weary cycle over again.
And while I don’t delight in donning this dreadfully suffocating garb every morning upon rising, I am finally beginning to see that my joy never was really stolen from me. The joy is in the wearing of the blanket! Yes, that dreadfully heavy, suffocating, saturated, black blanket.
The joy simply caresses me from the blanket’s fibers, enveloping me in love, reminding me of the happiness that my Honey brought me and of the perfect love that the two of us shared.
Only in this kind of pain and deep mourning can one ever come to realize the depth of love that they had once known and shared in life.
Yet another one of those double-edged swards.