Time’s Loss

I remember heaven.

I remember the glory that reigned there. The peace of it all. I remember being so fulfilled that I thought about nothing. Wanted nothing. Needed nothing. I remember sitting in the mouth of heaven, laughing for no reason at all, other than to let some of the light out of my soul.

But then…

I remember hearing it.

My name.

I remember heaven.

And I remember heaven cracking.

Remember hearing you calling me.

I remember the moment I remembered that I used to be alive. That I used to have a life. That there were people I loved and respected.

I remembered, then, that I used to have you.

That I left you.

And I remember a voice gently calling me. Asking me if I wanted to try something.

Just for a little while. Just for you.

I remember the day heaven let me go—just for a day, mind you—just so I could visit.

So I could comfort you.

It was raining here.

When wasn’t it, though?

Sunshine state my ass.

This place is a nightmare of rain. Of storms. Thunder and lightning—the whole bit.

It’s like that as I start the day.

But, by the time I reach my destination, its stopped.

Stupid rain.

Quietly, I trudge over the soggy ground. Doing my best to veer away from puddles, my flip flops squishing as they sink in and out of the mud. As I make my way over the perfectly green grass, I feel that its criminal that this is the place.

That there won’t ever be fall.

Broken leaves, red and orange and yellow, falling to the ground. Covering over these trodden grounds. Brushing against these gnarled and gray stones.

Touching the remnants of your name.

It’s sad that I won’t see snow fall over your grave. Building small piles against your dates. Sad that I won’t line the top with tiny snow men. That I won’t be able to show everyone that your name is missed. That this hole you occupy is sorely felt. That these trying times without you never really go away.

It’s been a year, and still.

I miss you.

They say that time heals all wounds, and maybe that’s the case. Maybe it just hasn’t been long enough. Maybe I’m pessimistic, giving in too quickly.

But.

I really don’t think so.

I really don’t think that’s the case.

It’s been a year, and still, I miss you.

Not as painfully as I did. When I think about your presence, I’m welcomed with a dull ache, a throbbing sensation filling my chest. Like I’ve been socked in the heart. When I think about you now, I no longer feel the stinging behind my ears, the piercing sensation of sobs.

I’m not healed.

Not really.

I’m only stronger.

And maybe that’s what they really mean.

Time makes you stronger.

And, honestly, I think it does.

As I stand quietly before your name, looking at the painfully short dates, I think that’s more correct. More apt a saying.

Time makes you stronger.

As I feel the ache of your absence, I feel confident.

Time will not heal these wounds.

But.

It’ll make me stronger.

As I stare at your name, a breeze ghosts through the graves. A gentle breeze. Kindly cooling me. Stealing away the mugginess the rain has left behind. Eating at the strange climb in temperature, providing a simple comfort. A small form of relief.

And in that breeze, I can smell it.

A stark smell. Sharp, woodsy. A smell that has always managed to catch me, snag my attention. Proclaim what I know to be true:

This scent…

It belongs to you.

In that familiar scent, brought on by a stirring wind, I can hear it.

Soft, gentle.

Above a whimper, but below a whisper.

I hear you call my name.

Feel the way you walk through the graves.

For a moment, I know it. Sorely, and surely, and strong as the tide feels the distant moon.

You’re there.

For a moment—just the one—I feel better.

I’m with you.

This hole in the ground—

This empty space—

Hollow wood rotting away—

I feel it.

Just as much as I feel you.

You’re missed, you know. Very much so.

I miss you.

And, although I won’t ever bless your grave with snowmen, or brush red leaves from your stone, just know:

Time passes still.

It does.

It passes.

Slowly, but surely. This sharp sting ebbing away, day by day, until it’ll become a small, irritable ache. It might not happen as starkly as I’d like, and it certainly happens regardless of my preferences, but still.

Time is moving forward.

It scares me, as I feel your tenderness in the breeze. Terrifies me as your scent surrounds me. Weakens me, to the point of sobbing, as the wind carries your whisper.

Because it’s true.

Time is moving forward, whether I like it or not.

And, one day…

One day…

Well.

One day, I might, too.

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Author’s note: Sorry guys, this is a little rushed. Been super busy lately with a sick family member and a shit-ton of garden work. But, such is life.