Fear made no room for a full breath in my chest; I seemed to have a continuous buzzing in my ears. With dread, I anticipated the first anniversary of his death.
The winter day came and it was bearable, but as the following days passed, my grief refocused and I came upon a crushing hurt that was powerful in its assault.
I must now measure time, since I last kissed his sweet face, in years.
Solace is found in the early morning drifting, at the pink-misted place between sleep and wake, where his breath is fresh and sweet and I can dream his death never happened. He is soft, warm and safe, in the little bed across the hall.
January 9, 2001