My Heart Come Home

Her heart is a space for rent. Her rates are low and the room is spacious. But right now, her it’s out of order, broken, missing. Her heart isn’t functioning as a selfless organ. Her love is on vacation, leaving behind a cold, empty woman.
When she lost him, something snapped. She pushed the world out and let only sleep aids in. self medicating her depression and loneliness drove her physical body into the ground, then someone else drove her to the hospital. Emerging from the emergency room, she declared herself independent. No one wanted to be around her and no one truly loved her- this was her delusion. She kicked her boarders out; she evicted her daughters and granddaughters.
She was screaming for help, all while pushing everyone out and locking the door. She was begging to be loved while believing herself unlovable. She was thirsting for attention and now she lives at the center.

Will You Be My Valentine?

Love isn’t always something that we fall into. Sometimes we stick our toes in first to make sure it feels right. Sometimes we wade in slowly, adjusting as we go. Sometimes love falls on us unexpectedly. But no matter how many ways love tends to finds us, it will always drown our senses to dim the awareness of anything else.
This love wasn’t a choice. This love was pacing the hospital waiting room as I was being born. It was a love softer than clouds, warmer than fire, and stronger than diamonds. It was the love of a proud Grampa greeting his first granddaughter.
As the years flew by, our hearts remained tethered by an unbreakable, yet very flexible, bond. Our hearts were joined as one beating in two separate bodies. Now I am carrying them both in mine. I keep you alive in my thoughts, in my dreams, and in our love. There will never be anyone who can embody love as you did. No love will ever live as long as yours.

Titanium

The silence is deafening, weighing heavy upon my heart. It wraps itself around my shoulders, tightening its grip around my throat, choking out all attempts at speech. Crying out for liberation from my burdens is useless. While most silence is golden, this one is titanium- stronger than any sound. It forces me to admit that I am weak. I am so weak.
Retaining every emotion that dare to encroach on my attempts at disregarding the sorrow that has entered my life, has done nothing but add to the weight of the silence. My heart is a vault with a seemingly unbreakable lock. Nothing can crack the code. No one knows the secret to opening my safe of emotions. The silence leads me to believe that they would rather leave the vault untouched.
Perhaps it is better this way. Maybe storing my words for a rainy day is the best option. Maybe repressing all my rage, sorrow, and vulnerability is the only way to stifle the problem. But it doesn’t seem so. This roaring silence pushes against my tongue, begging me to speak, begging me to cry. Crying shows weakness. Weakness is never the solution.
The weak are consumed by this vicious world. They are lost in the jungle of malice and spite. They are overpowered by the silence. Weakness is submission to fears and distress. It produces a smell so ripe that even the dead can smell the frailty of the weak.
As this liquid silence grows daily, I search for a draining system. This I haven’t found among my family and friends. I haven’t found it in the council of the elders or in the presence of the wise. Speaking to the silence only fuels it, causing it to grow at an ever increasing rate. But it is my only constant. It is the only one who remains through all the changes in my life. It is the monkey on my back and I have begun to accept and, perhaps, enjoy the companionship.

Outta Sight, But On My Mind

Tomorrow is the day we put you to rest. You won’t be our main focus. You won’t be our excuse. I’m afraid people will forget how important you are. I’m afraid I will forget what life was like with you.
I feel like I’m searching for sympathy when I call you my best friend or I tell people we were close. I feel like a hypocrite when I watch Grandma break down and say it will never be okay. I feel like I am the one who lost the most, but literally, I lost the least. I said a temporary goodbye to a man who I had for the developmental years of my life. He meant the world to me, and I to him, but I didn’t lose a life love, a husband, or a great father. I lost an extension of my soul I will once again regain.
In all honesty, saying goodbye was scary. It made me doubt my faith. It made me wonder if we are worshipping the one true God. It made me wonder if heaven is real. It caused all the doubts that I’ve never before had- that I’ve never before needed. Grampa, don’t get me wrong, I still believe Jesus is the only way. I still believe there is a heaven and you are there waiting on me, on Grandma, on everyone. If I didn’t believe, then I would have no peace.
Peace has shocked me by its presence. It is ever present, holding me, as if to say, “I promised I’d always be with you.” Is peace the role you play in heaven? Is it you holding my hand? Grandma needs some you, she needs some peace.
As I sit here talking to an absent person-soul, I wonder if you hear me. I wonder if you are still you and if you still love us. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t. so, whether it be true or just a piece of my imagination, I will hold onto talking to you and believing you hear me. Even though I don’t hear your reply, I know what you’d say, which isn’t much. I love you, too.

Be Careful What You Say, Because I Just Might Mean It

The consumption of my focus is attributed wholly to the absence of my love. “We have all the time in the world.” You were wrong and we both knew it. Our hearts were broken and we both hid it.
Your world was limited to the walls of your house and the leather of your green chair. Your time was kept by the frequency of the morphine dosing. Four hours. Three hours. Two hours. One hour. “Mrs. Linda, is it okay if I flush this, because I can’t leave it here?” They took away your body and wheeled it right out the door, along with Grandma’s heart. My heart went with your soul, through the roof and out of sight.
Is it possible to love someone who doesn’t technically exist? You did exist and I love you, and you being gone makes me love you no less. From a black and white point of view, I love nothing. But truly I love my everything, my everything just happens to be dead.
Why do they call it losing someone? I didn’t lose you. You didn’t walk away from me on the cereal aisle in Wal*Mart. I know exactly where you are. Half of you is set in a box awaiting the reunion with your mother and the other half is in a box waiting to be an addition to the beach where you grew up. Your soul is with your Father and your shadow falls on us.
Now that everything is over and I’m no longer busy with you, it happens to be very obvious that you are gone. You left me and you promised. You promised that you would be there for everything. You promised! But just like my heart, you broke your promise. You had no idea how much time was left in your world, but you knew you wouldn’t be here for the rest of mine.
It just isn’t fair that I had to give you up, that I had to give up on you. I don’t have a grampa. I have no man that loves me with no reserves and no contention. The heart inside of me misses you, but the shell can’t show it.