When you fall into a sinkhole...

If you want to know why I can't seem to find words these days is because
you can't hear my words
after I've fallen in the sinkhole of grief,
and can't seem to  find my way out.
I am still threading water, coming up for air.

I can smile when
this little clip of him= Gobble-Gobbling
pops up
in my cache
of photos I seem to use as my raft.

At other times, I sink deeper and deeper, worrying about what I should have done,
like calling him the evening of his death
teaching him the very skill
that he needed to survive that night.


I search for his voice, his face. in every one I meet.

A short loop plays in my head over and over again
where I can see what I think happened that early Sunday
when he was hit, ended up on the pavement, passed out, died.

A sinkhole has no exit paths.

Writing is just an excuse...

Writing is just an excuse for me to talk to you face to face as though I'm in the car with you, stopped at a crossroads. I want to ask you so many questions.

We have not cooked the stuff you liked, for fear of 'losing it".
We take turns telling the other about how just thinking of you chokes us.

Out of the blue, I think of how you loved to nap at the strangest times.
I think of  how you played with your pets, how you managed to create a household where both cat and dog had their spaces. You worked so hard at getting that house so you could have a dog.
Newkie still goes out a window at night, at will.
I suppose that Butters still devours her food in one bite.

You asked about God and the afterlife.
I still do.