accustomed to the pain.
his mother and i talked again today, and i love hearing her voice, broken and still soothing. i wish i lived closer to her. i wish we all lived in one place, and we've been experiencing the same haunting troubles.
we can't hear him because hearing him means admitting that he's really gone.
i have this space on my wall, which is generally referred to as the "family wall." it's been growing over the years, and it's pictures and letters and gifts and postcards and boston and new orleans and austin and post-its and everything. in one little part, near the edge, tacked to the blue, is the letter he wrote to me when i moved, a list he wrote of griggs people's favorite disney villains, superpowers and such, the keys to our apartment, and his hospital bracelet from when we went to the emergency room. this is the part that keeps me company when i write, the part i always look at, and the part that sometimes keeps me alive. and i know he's here, but i just can't face that music just yet. i know he's looking over my shoulder and haunting me with laughter, but i just can't bring myself to see it. that would mean that he's gone. that would mean that i miss him more than you're supposed to miss someone because they're not coming back. that would mean learning that he's dead. i'm not there yet.
they say, "when you're ready..." but i'm not sure when i'll be ready. i don't know what that means. i don't know that any of this is normal, and i don't know if it's ok that i feel this way. i don't care. all i know is that i'm sad. i'm so fucking sad. it's impossible to grow comfortable on this bed of nails, and i can't sleep with this pillow made of glass.
