Name.

The car smells like vomit from when you had the stroke. It’s been cleaned but when it sits in the sun and you get in you can smell it. Either that or my mind is a terrorist and invents the smell when I get in. I can’t drive anymore without thinking about you dying.

I sent texts to you today. Your phone is sitting dead on my bedside table. But the last texts we sent are still there and I’ve read them a million times. I said the things I should have said while you were alive. Why does it always happen that way? I should know better by now. People get fucking taken.

Some small part of me keeps waiting for an answer. As if somehow you’re not dead. Maybe I’m dreaming. Denial is a strong and strange drug. Sleep is a vague nothing. Every morning I wake up and remember you’re gone.

I have to do something with this grief. I have to put it into action somehow. In the depth of night at times like this, I want to come with you. I am so tired. Then I look at the sleeping faces of our 3 beautiful children and I come back to life.

Our oldest is sick with the flu. When you died, I told them you got very sick and there was nothing the doctors can do. He wakes up crying and asking me when he will feel better.

Your 2 year old daughter asked where you were last night.

Your 4 year old son asked his grandmother how you went to heaven.

This is not right. Nothing is right. Nothing makes sense. I feel like I’ve fallen behind some cosmic shelf and have been forgotten. I’ve been bitter about my life because GODDAMNIT this shouldnt happen. People go years and years without tragedy, they dont lose their parents when they’re too young to know what happened and they dont lose their partners til they’re old and grey and I want our fucking lives back the way they were.

I have been filled with an undefined, blind rage.

Don’t talk to me about God. He obviously doesn’t know my name.

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