Most times, I deeply wish that death wasn’t permanent—that it was just a temporary break from life, and that the dead would return after a few years, maybe 3 to 10 years. But can wishes ever be horses? Of course not.
I hate that I can only see your face in dreams because if I see you when I’m wide awake, there are places they might consider taking me to. It’s frowned upon to talk about you every day; I’m told to move on with life. But is it really that easy? I guess not.
Everybody says we shouldn’t dwell in the past, and yet, it’s sad because you’re there—in the past. You’re no longer part of my present or my future. You are now just a memory. And sometimes, when I think of you, I have to stop and double-check if that memory ever really existed or if I’m just being delusional.
Your face is fading slowly from my memory. Your image is getting blurry. If I dream of you often, I’m told to pray against death. If I play with you too much in dreams, they say it’s unhealthy.
You were so full of life; we never imagined death would come so early. We planned to grow old like Grandma, to laugh about being young and the foolish things youth makes us do. I thought there’d be a time when regrets would no longer sting because sweet memories would replace them. But you didn’t wait for that to happen.
You are gone. Gone, gone, gone.
Lewis Capaldi sings, “How do I say goodbye to someone who’s been with me for my whole damn life?”Even that song didn’t end with an answer.
Truth is, I can’t say goodbye. Even if your chapter has closed and your story has ended without a sequel, no page or chapter left to turn, nothing—not time, not grief—can erase your memory from my head.
I know it’s just two days to Christmas, and you might have expected something cheerful. But this is how I feel right now, and I needed to let it out. I hope you understand.
Happy Christmas in advance.
I also wrote on grief, and also named a novella Fragments ... though my Sabine has less fading of memory and more obsessing. Have a look at The Anointment or the other publication, Fragments ...
“Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more" -Williams S.
Adios to all left is the dark, leaves us with a broken heart but there's more room in a broken heart :)