The Lingering Edge of Grief
Introspection into the Mass Shootings of America and grief as a whole
Do you ever linger on the ones you love?
Memorizing every piece of their being?
The way their smile lifts just a little more on the right side of their face, met by a small divet in their cheek that you know even with your eye closed.
The mole on the side of their eye, soft and subtle. Drawing your heart to the radiance of their soul.
Laughter that even when your memory fades will linger on the edges of your mind. A sound that if given the correct tools you could draw time and time again.
When a person you love walks out the door, we always know somewhere in our subconscious mind that we may never see them again, and yet we say goodbye. We let go. We walk around with part of our hearts outside of our bodies.
In a country that values weapons over heartbeats, we experience a more conscious kind of worry every single day. A vibrational tick that never leaves our bodies or our hearts.
Violence is such a strange thing. A devastating occurrence that leaves the mind numb. We cling to disassociation as our main way of coping. When the violence occurs in a place of education, a place that should, by all means, be safe, it leaves the world around us in a state of frenetic chaos.
The victims who are killed will never come back to life. No matter what we change now, we cannot replace the life lost. More than that, we see our government ignore the aftermath. The children who survived, the parents, the aunts, the uncles, the teachers and then the children all over the country/world who see media coverage and then ask their parents… “Am I safe at school? At home? At the library?” The grief lingers long after the atrocity is committed.
I read a couple of hours ago that the husband of one of the teachers that lost her life, died today of a heart attack. Our hearts have limits, grief can consume us. The short story I am about to channel is going to be a poor attempt at putting words to an impossible feeling.
You should know that everything I share in this space will be unedited, straight channeled writing that comes from my soul. Sometimes they will come in the form of story, others in the form of poetry. Certain days may be pure feelings just poured into words. All an honest reflection of my being, shared with you.
I met a man once on a train on my way to London. He told me about his life, spent a long time describing the love of his life. Then, in a mere moment, his face altered, and he said she was no longer here. His rich descriptions faded into a fraction of a second. Just as that line exists between being alive, and passing. A fraction of a second.
A Fraction of a Moment In Time
My legs were stiff as my eyes fluttered. I opened and closed them and allowed the light to adjust. Slowly I pushed the covers off of me. Gently, as not to disturb his sweet, sleeping self that still rested in the realm of dreams.
I tip-toed into the restroom, brushing my teeth and washing my face in a sleepy routine of knowing. Making my way into the kitchen, I opened blinds, windows before the roosters had even woken. I boiled water for tea and began to make breakfast. Something warm. Something to keep them feeling nourished and taken care of throughout the busy day ahead. A day like any other.
I sipped the tea with hints of cinnamon, ginger, and anise as I breathed in the scent of onions and garlic hitting the pan. I heard the others stirring. Their little feet hitting the floor, the sounds of yawns and tiredness bringing a smile to my lips.
As the sun softly started to shed its light into the sky, he came and wrapped his arms around me. His body felt like the home I had always known. I didn’t need to see him to know he was there. His smell, his touch, all things I knew by heart.
In moments our babies were around a table that had scars from all the love they poured into it every day. Streaks of gold from painting, chips from the place she picked from her anxiety. I put down plates of their favorite meal, and as I went and got ready myself, listened to their laughter.
The day felt like any other. I didn’t hug him like I usually did, I didn’t remember to kiss his mouth. To hold his gaze and say I love you like it was the last time. I just held his hand in the car as we dropped the kids off at school, as he too went to school to teach other children about the world, the earth we all lived on.
I am in the dark now. The night seems endless as if it is perpetual and there is no such thing as day any longer. There is nobody beside me. There is no laughter. There is only a deafening quiet.
I replay that morning over and over again until my mind cannot function. Until my body trembles with fear and overwhelm. It was a day like every other. Brushing teeth, showering, making breakfast, listening to laughter that I thought I would hear until the day where I no longer existed.
We drove in the car, as we always did. Music playing, broken conversations, his hand. I should have held his hand longer. I told my babies I loved them, I kissed their faces. They had their favorite breakfast, but they had asked for Lasange for dinner. They never came home for dinner.
They will never come home again. I sit in the darkness of a heartbreak that I know I will never recover from. A grief that lingers in doorways, in shadow and in the vastness of daylight. A grief that is not just my own despite my personal losses. A grief that will be passed down for generations. A grief that speaks of all we did not do.
The inky midnight shadows that surround me, bury into my bones. I feel as though I am becoming liquid, something not human, something that no longer exists. Everything I loved. Everything I lived for was taken in a singular act of violence.
A bloodshed that never had to happen. A massacre caused by the edge of a political knife, an obsession with weapons that exceeded the obsession with human life.
I crawl out of my own skin, the morning replaying. I would like to stay here. In that morning memory. My body no longer, I simply want to sit outside our windows, and watch an everyday morning scene. To see a person who once was, sipping cinnamon-laced tea, staring back at me. The innocence before the loss.
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Kiss your loved ones.
Send the I love you text.
Hug more and longer.
Resolve fights and hold on to the ones who you cannot live without.
Breathe in the aroma of their skin.
Be present.
Call your representatives.
Donate to organizations that work diligently to create policy change.
Love you to the moon and stars,
Michelle