I am. Still.
So, do you know, you know, about me now?
I am a woman whose daughter has died.
I imagined a thousand different lives she could have lived.
I imagined myself an old mother of two strong, beautiful women.
I imagined our house happy.
I imagined her smiling.
I imagined her.
I am a woman whose daughter has died.
I listen to the same depressing song over and over again.
I paint maudlin pictures.
I take long sobbing baths of water so hot I walk out red.
I find comfort in wallowing.
I wallow.
I am a woman whose daughter has died.
I don’t want to talk about the weather with you.
I don’t want to feel beautiful.
I don’t want to flirt.
I don’t want to smile to make you more comfortable.
I don’t want to comfort you.
I am a woman whose daughter has died.
She never kissed an anxious boy in an orchard.
She never kissed me.
She never loved.
She never breathed.
She never.
I am a woman whose daughter has died.
I am a woman who had a daughter.
I am a woman now.
I am.