Tuesday’s 200 Words: 10th Day of Mourning

Once I told you I felt like a homing pigeon. Any time I set out for exercise, randomly wandering down streets I’d neither driven nor walked before, miles later, I found my body closer to where ever it was you were.

Three times this week I ended up walking barefoot towards the edge of California. It’s the only time I feel tolerant. You’re not even above ground any more and my body continues trying to return to you.

In the warm January Pacific, the sand pulls right out from under my soles. It doesn’t matter how heavy I am, how still I am, how unrelenting I am, the ocean takes my foundation back into itself and I sink. Ankle deep is as close as I can get to you.

I heard of a book I thought might help. “Broken Open.” Searched three stores over two days. Last  night, I saw it on the shelf, thumbed through, looked at text on the pages without reading any words and dissolved into tears. Covered my mouth to keep the sounds in.

I think a part of me held an inexplicable hope that if I found the book you wouldn’t be dead any longer.

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