Time

"Time heals all wounds" they say, but time is not my friend. On Tuesday night it will be 11 weeks since you died.

The inexorable march of time pulls me, unwillingly, away from you. As I tear each day's page from my desk calendar it reminds me that every day that passes takes me farther away from when I last held you in my arms. I have to reach another day further back in time to remember your smile, your laugh, your sarcasm, your wit.

I don't want to move into the future - the future doesn't have you in it.

Today...

How dare the days grow longer?

How dare the sun call me to rouse with such brightness and persistence so early each day?

How dare the world fill with the colors, smells and sounds of new life?

The flowers call to me, but I don't want to see how beautiful they are.

The fragrance of Easter Lilies is a balm, but the fragrance of a rose speaks of summer, and love, and celebrations; all things anathema to me.

How offensively perky my capris and t-shirts seem, when I would rather be wrapped in the comfort of a cocoon of cashmere.

Even the candle, lit each morning by your picture, seems out of place in the newfound warmth of each day.

Doesn't the world KNOW it should stop?

Don't the birds KNOW they should stay mute?

Don't the flowers KNOW they should wither and fall?

How can it possibly be summer, when my soul is in the depth of winter?

… and no spring is in sight.