all is silent here in Mayberry. i sit here, quiet as a church mouse, chain smoking and thinking of you. your memory shrouds my heart this morning, as golden sun falls upon grateful ground
as i look across the room at the bed we shared,
i recall when you and i were ‘we’. my rocking chair creaks a bit
as i consider the things we shared in that bed. passion and pain; tears and laughter…all packaged like a lovely gift, wrapped up in the pillows and comfort. even so, as much as i stare at that bed,
you are never coming back.
i remember the last time i held your hand in mine. it was cold…swollen…lifeless. next to your deathbed, i stood, realizing that i held the hand of a corpse. i was so angry at what they did to you; those ghouls in their white coats. i was angry with you for what you did to yourself, hating myself for never finding the courage to walk away so that you could have a better life with someone new.
it’s been a year and a half now, but, every day, when my eyes open i see your face and i feel your cold, dead, hand in mine. i don’t know if i’ll ever let go of that hand. i love you so much. no matter how bad things were between us, that is still my truth, as it has been for the last 34 years of my life.