Grief You’re Like a Roach

Grief you’re like a roach.  Like the giant water bugs we used to have in our first Brooklyn apartment.  So grotesque and shockingly large, and yet so elusive, able to run quicker than we could catch you and melt your body to slip through the smallest crack or crevice.  We moved the bed and the nightstands searching for you.  I yelled because he missed you and I knew I’d get no rest knowing you were about.  But you always were weren’t you?

Tonight I went into our clothes closet to grab some art supplies I keep there right now for Audrey.  I pushed open the door and reached down to get them.  The sleeve of a button down shirt of yours Dan, seemed to reach out and grab me.  The button became all entangled in my hair before I realized what had happened and I’d already shut the closet light out.  I struggled in the dark to get loose for a minute, ripping my hair off that button because it was disconcerting to be stuck there.  And leaving a few strands on your still unwashed shirt.

I have nothing else tonight.

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