Since you’ve been gone, I spend my days with this uneasiness–uneasy because I don’t know if I’m taking care of things the right way; uneasy because I don’t know if I’m grieving properly; uneasy because I don’t know how to live without you. I walk through time in a daze, and the only real emotion I feel is this never-ending, dull, gray, terrible, lonely unease.
I look into their eyes, and they avert theirs. They don’t know what to say, so we sit in awkward silence. I try to talk about you, and they change the subject. As if it hurts them to mention your name. But I need to talk about you. I need to say your name. I need to hear what they remember.
I need to remember; always remember.
Maybe life will get easier with passing time. Maybe they will let me say your name and not freak out. Maybe I will stop feeling guilty because I’m still here and you aren’t. Maybe.
But right now I’m living with this uneasiness.