It’s been a year…

Really? It’s been a year?

Does time fly or am I so stuck on that day,

In that moment where I saw my heart crumble.

Hard to believe they were ever gone,

No one in my family stopped talking about her.

She loved in our hearts and was spoken as if she were still alive.

Except for me.

My family got worried and asked me to go to therapy.

No one in the family was as close as I was with her.

In the therapists office I’d feel a ghost of a hug.

Like she was telling me it was ok to feel better.

I struggled at that first appointment,

The heat of my face making it red.

Holding back tears that sting my eyes.

I don’t want to let go.

I don’t want to drop the grief,

It’s the collection of all the love I never got to share with her.

The love that I’ll have to keep in the tiny broken bits of my heart,

Love that will always remind me of days where I got mad at her.

Love that would tell me I could’ve hugged once more,

Told her how good she looked.

Made her feel as loved as she made me feel.

Love in my chest that pained my mind.

Love that I never wanted to forget.

The therapy got around to dealing with my grief.

It didn’t ask me to leave my grief behind,

And in turn leave how I felt for her.

It asked I put my love into myself and others I love.

“Would she have liked to see you this way”.

“No”

“What can you use this held onto love for her for?”

“…I like to write”

A few other sessions of therapy, and.

I started to write a book.

A book of all my love for her that I never got to share.

A biography of sorts, embellished with my thoughts and feelings.

A year had passed by the time it was published.

I gave a copy to all my family, with a smile on my face they had missed.

I saved a special copy, and on top of her gravestone I placed it with a bouquet.

“To my mum, I miss you”