Sea And The Rock Below

It's too much, sometimes. She sent me a text about it and I in disbelief and hoping for some innocuous answer to just explain it away checked the chronicle and the sickness that ensued. The feeling of lead in the pit of the stomach, the downgoing, and the thought of the loved ones who could be and are in those shoes every day during their eight hour scope of practice. This complete and total farce, this thing we lead called life. This thing that leads us. She can't choose anything else, so there is no good done in grieving the point. And he leaves three children just too much like us, and I can hardly believe even, if a day exists that I will wake up and she will not also be doing so. I do not think it morbid to wish for a car accident at 85, maybe on the dunes in Michigan, me the navigator, her the driver.

I don't know what you do the next day, the day after, when you wake up. And the gravity of the thought that there is nothing we can do about it now, you still have to wake up, there is still this earth and things to do. What would you be? A little wisp of a soul inside of a corpse. Saint Michael, please watch over my blue team with a ready sword. Oh little weary soul. I never think about the job that actually has to get done. I want to tell the Kerstetters something so important, but the words are just flat and weak because they have already awoken again and put bare feet down onto that very totally unfamiliar carpet in a bedroom that is ugly awful hollow for the memories and what would you do with the pillow that still smelled like him? Wash it? You couldn't bare to do so but the smell would haunt you like a ghost and rip your heart every time to a million pieces more than the time before. Impossible even to imagine.

This ocean dissolving my kingdom of rust. Holes poking the sunlight through and onto all of the spots I want to ignore, this life that is so far from solitary. Just, thank you. If I haven't said it. Can't even imagine.