Grief is a clever monster.
There are days that I don't cry, but if too many of those days go by, I'm beset by headaches or clogged sinuses or, like the whole of the week after New York, a low-grade fever and three goddamned cold sores.
Grief wants to win, no matter how much control we exert over the crying.
It's been a bad couple of weeks, what with the six month mark passing, and finally receiving the autopsy (eight to ten weeks, my ass). Next week is Frankie's birthday. Oh, Christ. It would have been his birthday. Is it still? I don't know. There would have been 26 candles, anyway, and one extra for good luck, except we all know that's a load of garbage now, don't we?
He's not coming back, you know? Of course you know. Of course I know. But it all comes in waves, and that's what's coming in again.
I wish I could tell you, in words, in English, and not in moans and air-clawing, what this feels like. I guess the only thing that I can say that makes sense right now is that I've wanted very much, over the last few weeks, to ramble about the size of my arse, and gush about my new shoes. There is still so much about New York that I want to tell you. I even went to a ridiculous wedding for which I had my hair and makeup professionally done for Christís sweet sake, which is enough fodder for three days of my usual kind of blather, but still, nothing comes. It hurts too much to be light, to be airy, and to give a whit about adjectives and punctuation.
This is the worst, most boring, kind of navel-gazing, I know.
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