Outside, the face of a sunny Monday has collapsed into darkness. Inside, blueberry wine is poured into a stained coffee mug. Because it was her favorite. But I can’t even do that without somehow soiling it.
It was a long battle. One she had fought previously on two occasions. And somehow managed to win. But the third time was not her charm. Those misguided percentages were just another fucking lie.
Through it all, I cheered for her. Celebrated her songs. Learned all the words. Debated that cross-country trip when I first heard the news. She helped me to live; I wanted to help her die. But, I didn’t go. Because when that idea was proposed, we were still lying to ourselves—everything would be okay.
And I found out today that things are pretty fucking far from okay.
She liked my words; I loved her music. It was never any more complicated than that. And we never pushed for more. But it’s sure as fuck complicated now. Because I will never understand how to fill the space she left behind.
It hurts that she’s no longer hurting. It robs the breath and triggers the tears. Almost to the point of dehydration.
So I pour more wine.
I play her songs on a constant loop—angry that her playlist ends too soon. I memorize the notes. And pretend that they were all written for me. I stare at pictures that can never stare back, wondering if she ever truly understood just how much she meant to me.
Two bottles of blueberry wine and the same seven songs. Sobs and heaves amidst the height of her wake. Caught in a sloppy coffee mug rage. Because there will never be new music. Or late night text conversations that sustained us as we struggled to chase down our respective art.
She sings for the universe now. And plays for the wind. I hope to catch her there, when the breeze brushes against my cheek. Or when the spring sunshine comes to warm my face—it will be the concert of her lifetime.
And I will cherish her every note, until it’s my turn to sing…