The difficult thing about loving people is losing them.
I have grieved the deaths of people who are still living. I wonder how I will manage to walk across rooms and drive. To stir the soup and not set the house on fire, and to find any reason for the smallest pinch of joy when my life is no longer connected to theirs.
The difficult thing about living in general, is its loss.
The difficult thing about living in general, is its loss.
To get up every day and know that it will end. Maybe today. Maybe not.
And will the ones you love struggle to stir the soup, too?
Will they have to try to not set the house on fire while they miss you in their bones
and ache with your absence in ways they don’t even know how to tell?
And will the ones you love struggle to stir the soup, too?
Will they have to try to not set the house on fire while they miss you in their bones
and ache with your absence in ways they don’t even know how to tell?
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