On mothers dying.
The radio said it was going to rain that day.
I figured I'd be fine with no umbrella -
It's just water after all.
But here I am six months later
still soaking wet and miserable.
If you think you're prepared, you aren't.
When you think you'll be alright, you won't.
It's like nothing you've felt before.
You'll wake in the morning not knowing
how to go about living.
You'll forget to change your clothes,
brush your hair
tie your shoes.
Such normal things won't even occur to you
as you try to forget the previous night's dreams
in which her face floated in and out
barely beyond reach.
You'll see strangers walking down the street and wonder
why it couldn't have been them instead.
Justifying your thoughts with strange reasoning
They're older than she was.
She was prettier.
No one cares about them anyway.
You'll wish death on a hundred people a day.
You'll see children with their mothers and hate them.
Imagine yourself screaming at them to appreciate what they have.
But you won't.
And they won't.
Just as you didn't.
You'll recall old heartbreaks and wonder
how you ever thought that was pain.
You'll dwell for months on the things you didn't say
years on the things you did.
Recall every last memory with her and decide what you should have done instead.
And then one day, you won't think of her.
You'll feel better but not know why.
You'll see the world isn't such a terrible place
and things aren't always bad.
Then you'll remember she's still dead,
and you'll start all over again.