Wilting Roses

Tonight was uncharacteristically cool for the south, so I walked. I caught glimpses of the sun through the trees and found myself surrounded by bird songs. The beauty of the evening startled me. Are things allowed to be beautiful when your heart is broken? I walked on.

As my legs swayed, I wondered, how am I still so weak?

Of course, this is not the weakest I have been. No, the weakest was probably three hours after. When the loss was fresh. I was laying on a couch that wasn’t mine in a reality that also wasn’t mine.

Some part of me almost prefers that day over this. It’s an odd longing. I think it’s because that day was at least closer to when he was breathing. I could hold his hand then. We still had hope that things would change. As I walked down the road, I realized the more I move forward in my life, the farther I move away from his.

With every day that passes, my denial weakens. If a man has been dead for over a month, he is going to stay dead. I imagine some people winced reading those words. Apologies– I didn’t mean to offend you with my grief (but as my dad would say, “Truth isn’t mean. It’s truth.”). See, I am not uncomfortable talking about death. I believe the world would benefit if we stopped being so scared of these conversations. So if you are courageous enough to be uncomfortable, follow along. Because grief doesn’t disappear in two weeks. People stop bringing flowers, and then our bouquets die too. What happens then?

What does grief look like after the roses wilt?