I wept when I returned with an empty truck bed, when I walked in to see the marks in the carpet. Footprints left by days of suffering, hoping, and waiting. So much weight. So much heaviness. That ugly ungainly couch--how did it come to travel here, I cannot remember now--that was where you fought to stay. Four depressions in the pile. I wept knowing that soon enough they, too, will fade away. I wept at the lightness and relief I felt that it was gone, and I wept at the guilt that comes with that.
I weep seeing sunny days that you never will, and again remembering all those days we shared with the light on our faces. I weep in the kitchen imagining you watching me trying to nourish myself, and I weep knowing that if you were here I wouldn't have to. I weep coming home to an empty house, and I weep over the fact that the ghosts have dissipated and drifted out the open screen door. I weep to feel my heartbeat and the whoosh of air into my lungs, and again when the realization hits anew that you were stilled. I weep because I can still run, and laugh, and sneeze, and scratch, and love, and moan, and howl, and shit, and yawn. I have hot showers, and clean sheets, and breezes in my hair. I have puppy kisses and long hugs from friends.
I weep because I can buy a new couch. I weep because you always said you couldn't live without me, and because apparently I can and will go on without you. The fact that I can thrive makes me cry.
I weep to see how strong I have become, how I have learned to stand up straight and flourish without you. I weep at my strong back and legs, my ability to take to the air and fly so unencumbered and light. I weep to realize, sometimes, that I have gone days without weeping.
I want to launch a boat on this salty sea, to get my feet and legs wet as I clamber aboard. Not to float away. Not to seek you out. I weep to realize I don't need that anymore. I want to lie on my back, and gaze at the stars, and to feel this river of tears gently rock me to sleep so that I can cry with joy at a new day.