"Absence is like the sky, spread over everything." C.S. Lewis
When she died, I thought about her every day in the weeks and months following the accident. After the funeral, she materialized in my dreams.
Over the years, she stopped clinging to the minutes on my clock. I didn't think about her all the time. The thick milkshake of a sob throbbing in my throat lessened into a dull stab in my stomach every now and then.
She creeps in every once in awhile, during the most ordinary of moments. I'm out shopping and a girl saunters by, tossing her honeyed hair. “It's her,” my mind breathes, stunned out of my universe.
Driving into the country last weekend, wind whipping my hair, music blasting over the radio, the reverie fractures as I realize this is the road. Somewhere on the shoulder, on the other side of the yellow line, she slipped away.
The blue sky above me is endless. The blackened road before me is terminal.
I wonder if it hurts or if it all goes black.
Today I was washing dishes slowly and vacantly when I realized.
I know: she is dead.
She no longer exists.