As always, it is at the front of my mind that you will die.

It is true that deeper than my own mortality, I am afraid for yours. I feel that I have not taken from you all that I need, and it will never be enough, I will never have enough from you and when you are gone, it will be an eclipse that withers my world. In what earth will I sink my roots? In what winter shall I bloom, a new soul, a new life that begins the day yours ends? There would be no tomorrow; there would be no return. Would I find a love that replaces yours? Impossible. Inevitable. Unthinkable.

All I know is that your end shall be the catalyst. Such sorrow will inevitably lift me to heights never before seen, never before known, because that is the temperance of my heart. It is true that every eclipse leads to revelation -- that we must lose the deepest parts of ourselves in order to build ourselves anew. That in losing half of my heart, my own soul will grow it back, and this time it will be strong enough to carry the whole world.

When I see you --
    dreaming --
I always find a way
   to warn you,
be careful,
    be careful because
you might get sick
    and die.

Careful,
I seem to recall
   that you were sick once,
sick and dying.
You got better, though?
Or is this still before?
   Before that thing, that thing that happened,
the bad thing
 I can't quite remember why
     but why do I feel
like I haven't seen you
  in such a long time?
I've missed you.

What happened?
I've missed you.

And then sickening, cringing,
   drowning
as I remember another dream,
a dream within the dream
   where I woke up
and you were gone,
    a long time gone,
so cold and gone.

It was a dream
   where I faced you last,
some otherworld
   where your shade
         met mine.
Because what disturbs me
    is not that it might be you,
or from you,
    or of you,
but rather nothing like you
    except the stubborn child
of my mind,
    a child past--
insisting,
    shouting,
         yelling
that your silhouette is something real.

I touched it once,
   knowing it was a dead woman
dreaming.

Somehow, she never
   came back to life.

All I have are pictures,
and pictures don't forget.
For all the thoughts inside
I haven't found the words as yet.
Despite these past eight years
your gentle voice prevails,
inside my mind
I try to find
a reason that entails --
Or justifies,
or thus explains
why your soul was taken,
why it had to be my love,
what longings have awakened.
What lessons of this world
were taught to ordinary me --
I search inside,
Hypothesize
a reason this may be.

It's in these moments that I truly know the meaning of "hard to breathe." I feel sick inside, and lost, like who could possibly stand up against this kind of monster. How can the body contain it, it is so deep and powerful, far deeper than any fleshy residue. I don't think children who've lost parents talk enough about it. It's an experience that makes the most mature adult shake in his boots, and here we are, mere children, dealing with such powerful grief that it is impossible to cry. How can such pain be expressed in tears? The voice cannot scream it loud enough, the heart cannot break hard enough, and our hands are just not strong enough. This is a grief that is far deeper than the body, and it never goes away. In fact, the opposite is true - the older we get, the worse it feels.

My mother died 7 years ago, and it is harder for me to accept it now than when I was 12. I've been to therapy, but I still have days like this one, where everything is shrouded in a gray veil, and all I can think about is her, and death, and loss. Words are just not strong enough. If I could take a knife and plunge it into my chest, it would hurt less than this emotional torment. I wish that I didn't have a body, so I didn't need to feel this pain. I wish I knew what it was, and how it all worked, and how it's possible for the emotions and the physical human body to become so blurred together; is it my heart that aches, or my muscles, my sinews, my very bones? I cannot tell the difference. This pain takes up my whole body, and I can't breathe, I can't cry, I can only sit here silently and wish to scream. But screaming still isn't big enough. That is part of the pain as well - knowing that no matter what I do, it will never go away. I can only sit here and learn to function with it. Sometimes I think that grieving should be a physical handicap.

I will never really know the woman my mother was, and I have to learn to be okay with that. I will never hear her voice or hug her again, and somehow I need to accept this. When I dream of her, it is so real, I can have those moments that my heart longs for, when we hug and talk and touch - and this life seems very far away, like a memory, or a dream in itself. And then I wake up, and I am tortured with those glimpses of happiness that are taken away from me. Why does waking have to be such sweet misery? There are times that I am afraid of sleeping, because I don't want to dream about her, and then wake up just to lose her all over again. I swear she has died a thousand deaths in these 7 years, just from dreams alone.

It's passing now. The body can never take this pain for long, and now it is going away, sinking deep inside of me where it will wait for my next moment of weakness, or some unexpected trigger. But it's only a matter of time before I feel this crippling torment again, and then I will bear it again, as I have been bearing it since I was 12.

For all of you out there who have lost your parents, I am sorry. I truly, truly am sorry.