getting out of bed
The alarm was hushed; it was dawn and the windows only hinted at the gentle quickening of the earth. You pulled layers of sheets and heavy blankets back over your head and explored the growing knot that had found a home in your chest during the night. The pain felt familiar as you turned it this way and that until recognition finally blossomed beneath your fingertips: it was the shock of the morning after, when still you cannot quite believe that the bond was broken and the relationship relegated to dusty memories and yellowing picturebooks, when you know that the act of getting out of bed — to put two feet on the ground and let the day begin — is to lend credence to this event and to accept the loss and the tacit understanding that life will no longer be the same.
Yet it is different now. You recognize that getting through it is possible. Long ago as you walked onto the street with your heart crumpled in your hands, a man appeared and told you that everything’s going to be all right, love, believe me, you’ll see, and you did believe him — to this day, you still don’t know why — but when you turned to thank him he was gone, an apparition on the sidewalk departed. But his words lingered and will come back to stay with you through the long days of work, family, and friends, and the even longer nights when you are left alone with your thoughts in the darkness. Given time, you know you will grow stronger and maybe even a little bit wiser. You know that you are looking forward to that day.
