There’s a gray veil that covers the landscape and the skies are dark.
That’s how it looks.
Even though the sun is shining.
I burrow deeper under the blanket and curl up tighter on the far end of the couch. I feel guilty for taking up this space, for not feeling like moving, for my continued sadness.
I’m warm under the weight of my soft throw and I don’t want to clean, organize, put away, or look through.
But I should.
When I do pull myself up, tidy for a bit, and sort through the Christmas madness I don’t feel better, I feel tired and ready to go back to my nest where the dark clouds loom. I’m ashamed of myself for letting my feelings of sadness and heartache go on so long, I feel guilty for watching my husband clean and organize while I hold back sobs, and I try to dig myself out of the shadows, but I can’t move.
There’s pain, and loss, and sadness, and frustration, and loneliness, and it’s overwhelming.
I know this feeling well.
And I feel like I want this feeling to swallow me whole.
Maybe I should be “over it” by now, maybe I should have “moved on,” and “quit my crying.”
But my heart says it’s not time yet.
I try to involve myself in events, keep busy, be with friends, but my mind is floating with the past. I’ve gone back in time to two weeks ago and hold my own hand as I hear the ultrasound tech tell me over and over again that there is no heart beat.
And that’s where I stay.
From the corner of the couch I pull the blanket up over my shoulders and look out the window. The sun peaks through the clouds and warms my legs.
I tuck my head under the blanket.
No thank you, light.