Sometimes I get horrible waves of deep, deep sorrow.
They come on soft,
And then, just as the ocean breaches the shore,
Creeps up slow and peaceful,
Then begins to caress the land with anticipation:
Rush into me swiftly.
A tsunami of remembrance.
In my car,
In the hallway,
It’s not that I forget that you’re lungs no longer create harmony with the metronome of your once beating heart,
But more so that I remember.
Very strongly, all at once.
The strong and sturdy walls I’ve built around myself are instantly turned to mush, as my soul rolls out, swirls about my tongue.
I have to swallow it back,
Blink once or twice, ensure that I do not create tiny red side walks across my eyeballs; examples of your blood that still runs through my body.
When I hear Sinatra,
When I watch a Christmas movie,
When I hear my father’s laugh.
You are everywhere.
I have an innate ability to shut off the things my spirit feels.
But it is wild and disagreeable,
A trait I know I’ve found in your genes.
It longs to make me feel; to make me hurt.
I do my best to ignore it,
But it always finds a way to crawl back up,
A tidal wave
Of deep, deep sorrow.