There is nothing beautiful about grief, nothing that makes a tidy little narrative, exquisitely delicately painful in a poetic fashion
there’s only every day full of pinpricks and burdens and memories and the insurmountable hurdle of just trying to be a working parent while your world is shattered
and crying, and tons of snot
and all the never agains
You’ll never again make fun of me for the absurd amount of butter I like on my toast, for the absurd amount of cream cheese I like on my bagels. Twice what you think is reasonable. You laugh at it, but then you make them that way for me anyway.
You’ll never kiss me goodbye in the morning, a blur of suit and tie teasing me for still being sleepy in bed, text me later in the morning making sure that I’m up to face the day and encouraging me to be productive (not that you did that recently, anyway, as we both sacrificed our sleeping in for the kid).
You’ll never offer to finish a chore so I can go to bed, you’ll never handle the communication to make plans with friends and get me out of the house, you’ll never go off on some righteous nerd rant about a broken system, you’ll never complain that you hate the beach, you’ll never ask me to write labels or the inscription on a card so the handwriting is legible.
I’ll never take the kid to the park so you can work on your homelab. I’ll never read a book and summarize it for you so you don’t have to read something that had one interesting idea and two hundred pages not worth your time. I’ll never offer to drive us so you can have some drinks with your friends.
every day it seems wrong, when I’m getting up or making toast or going to the park or trying to arrange some plan for myself
to have to do it alone
I feel adrift, purposeless, pretending like I give a fuck about anything without you