It’s like you disappeared. It’s like I disappeared. I’ve struggled with remembering you lately, having sharp reminders when a police car speeds by and I’m transported back to the wellness check. To you calling me two separate times, in three minute intervals, to encourage me to unlock my door. Sometimes, the reality of you hits me in a panic. I can’t orient myself; I feel like I’m falling from a great height and there’s no landing. And then there’s quiet as I disconnect. As my mind protects me from any impact. Today, I woke up with calm, sitting by the front door like a child waiting for their father to return home, knowing you were real in the moment and that I missed you and that it’s all I had capacity for. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t sad. It was almost too beautiful of a day for either. And perhaps, I’ll let [I miss you] be enough for now, without scolding myself for not being “better”, without trying to convince myself it never happened, without combing over every detail for a crumb of closure.
