I can't breath. The reflection in the mirror, the eyes staring back at me that usually keep me steady, steady, steady... are held open in panic. I recognize the face, but vacancies stand where softness once called home.
She's in the doorway, evaluating my red-rimmed eyes. She could have moved away, carrying her own stage of grief. But she asked me if I was okay. I had to say yes. I had to breath to speak and breathing equated with okay. So I was okay. Breathing. In and out. Even when it felt like I couldn't. Despite my vacant, red-rimmed eyes. She told me it was okay to cry. I felt the tears slide down, fast and with momentum. Built up sorrow. She told me she would be upstairs if I needed her.
I didn't dry my hair before I crawled onto her bed. Examined the re-arranged furniture and her personal stages of spite and sorrow and healing. I felt safe. With her. My vacant stare now fixed on the television with the softness returning and my rib cage rising and falling.
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