This day is burned into my mind. I will revisit it often, without wanting to. Tiny details.
They will hurt. They are each a tiny shard of dirty brown glass. I will turn them over, one by one, and the blood will flow anew with each wound I reopen. But... I don't think about that now. They are not old scars yet. These lacerations are fresh and stinging. They are only just now being embedded one by one by cold, thin fingers. I barely register the words spoken at the podium. I can feel the speaker doesn't feel them. He is merely serving. Earning his solemn wages.
People often say things like "He's with us in spirit."
If he is, I wish I could feel him.
I wish he could make his presence known. I wish he could hold me again. I was robbed. Death robbed me of precious time. I need him. It's too soon. I'm still a child. I feel so empty. I am so cold.
Everything hurts.
How can someone live with this?
"Why?"
That insidious, useless, unanswerable little query.
And yet...
how can I stop asking it?
