The Year

No one knows. The Year.

I'll be at her funeral. Really, I will. And all I will do is touch your arm. "Next year," I'll tell you, because I know, "I'll still be here for you."

You won't know it then. Too confused and saddened. But a year after, a bit different. What all of you do for me now, you don't really know what you're doing. Oh, but you will know. You will know the pain and the suffering. After that first year. Parents go before children. If you want the recipe, do it now. Not Later. You don't have later...I thought I did. I didn't. And in the broad stroke of an artist painting a watercolor, she was gone. Art is life, it's all around, and I can't explain it. It just is.

I just want want one time where I can talk about her, without the interruptions, and about her funny stories. And if "He's" out there, I know what loss is.....