On Acceptance (1/30)
Long after the flowers have wilted and the neighbors’ lasagnas thrown out, after the relatives stop calling to check in, when we no longer look for your face in the crowds or forget that you are not simply waiting for us In the other room– we find ourselves with our heads above water, gluttonously gulping air as if we have already forgotten what it feels like to drown. There are days, whole weeks, when I don’t think of the old pair of your shoes I keep under the bed, And the rumble of the train going by sounds less and less like the rattle of bones and more like the warmth of your laugh. On the nights when we are pulled under the waves, when even the very air surrounding us is just a reminder of the space you no longer inhabit, there is still starlight that filters through the water, and we know that we will breathe again. My brother, the weight of this has never changed. We have only gotten stronger. We have learned how to carry it.
