Where My Heart Used to Be
Where My Heart Used to Be They say grief comes in waves, but no one tells you the size, how a calm sea can suddenly rise and darken the skies. They say grief comes in waves, crashing into you like a tsunami tide, dragging away everything you knew, everything safe, everything that survived. One moment I'm standing, holding myself together somehow, the next I'm drowning in memories, asking, "What do I do now?" Each wave finds me unexpectedly— while making tea, while folding clothes, while passing a place we used to go. And yes, you can brush your teeth whilst sobbing. You can answer questions whilst breaking. You can smile at the world while your soul is quietly shaking. It's exhausting. Deep-down, bone-aching, spirit-breaking exhausting. The kind that sleep cannot cure, because sleep itself has become a thief; bringing me dreams of my David, then waking me back to grief. Every part of me is yearning for him. Every heartbeat calls his name. Every sunrise feels the...