If You Say So

I have been keeping my head down, avoiding Facebook, trying to pretend this day doesn't exist.
But it does
It's a whole year later and I still don't have the right words to say
Not that I haven't tried. For a whole year his name has leaked into every bit of writing.
I've fought with his memory, wrestled with my own emotions, stared at myself in the mirror so long wondering who this girl is now, and how she is supposed to react.
I have realized, in all my searching, that there is no guidebook for this. There is no one here except for me.
I have become somewhat selfish in my grief, wrapping it around me like a blanket. I don't talk about it to anyone, and am caught off guard by those who seem to put their grief on display, large pieces of it being lived out loud.
This is my memory, mine, you can't have it. This is all I have left of him. It's mine
I relive the pain over and over because is there really any other way? I could curse my writer's heart, something internal that brings up what I spent so long trying to forget every time I sit down to write or go to bed early or listen to a certain song.
And maybe I should curse my writer's heart for feeling so much, for pretending it could handle this
I'm keeping my head down, writing the same thing over and over because it is still living inside of my body. I have a playlist of songs I avoid, but some things still manage to catch me off guard, like the smell of French fries or someone named Katie. I haven't been able to bring myself to watch Sue Thomas F.B.I since.
It is like my skin has been rubbed off and I am just trying to avoid sharp corners and salty foods and lemons.
I am trying to make a roadmap, to understand this, to create myths and stories until I have what I need.
For a whole year, I have screamed and wailed and cursed and tried to build something from nothing. I have avoided mirrors and sharp edges, listened to too many sad songs, written and re-written the story I am still trying to find the right words to tell.
I haven't stopped writing because there is this moment when you are writing when everything else just fades away. It is almost like a meditation, when there is just this space.
And in that space I can take a deep breath. I can hear him.
"I'm sorry," I say
"I know"
There is a breath, a pause, and then
"I'm right here," He says
"I know," I reply, "Me too."