Not ready

I woke up today and thought about you, like I do every morning.

The moment I open my eyes, when my brain is awake, my body begins to shake. Soft, small shakes. It’s become a daily occurrence since you left us.

I take my time getting up, allowing the shaking to slowly dissolve into the movements and stretches I do every morning.

But today, when I finally got up, I just decided to lay back down.

I’m not ready yet.

I’m not ready to face another day without you.

But eventually, I know I have to. I have to put my feet on the ground. I have to stand up. I have to move through this day.

And as I move through the day, there is a constant undertow beneath everything.

We all feel it.

We know there are chores to do. Things that need our attention. Life that keeps asking us to participate in it.

But underneath all of that, there is this very real desire to find a way to freeze time. To stop the clock. To avoid anything that acknowledges another day has passed without you.

Because another day passing means another day farther away from the last day you were here.

And none of us are ready for that.