“I’m sorry.” “No, it’s OK,” I start to say. / But it’s not. Because unless you’ve lost someone, you expect there to be a timeline: / But that’s bullshit. / Because missing her never goes away. / It changes, and you live with it, but it’s never OK. In the beginning, I couldn’t breathe, it was like drowning. Big angry wave after big angry wave crashed over me, knocked me over, spun me around, but you feel sunlight on your skin. And it’s almost OK again. / Until the water swells around you, and another wave bears down, and you’re back against the rock. / Only this time you remember while you’re clinging to the rock, “It does get easier. This too shall pass,” / (And you hear this in your mother’s voice) “It does get easier. This too shall pass.” / And it does. / And you take that chance and slip back into the waters where you float again / only just as you / remembered while you were being smashed that it may come again, / you remember, too, this time, “it does get worse.” And it does. / But the spaces between those brutal waves stretches / and you trust yourself to be OK. / You know that it isn’t gone, not the missing, / it’s always there, that wisp on the horizon, reminding you “enjoy this now, because the storm will come again.” / And even though it IS OK now, it still ISN’T. / Not really. Not ever. / So, I take a deep breath and say / “You know what? It’s not OK. / It f*cking sucks.” / And then I feel better.
Sarah Tuttle Singer is an L.A. expat growing roots in Israel. www.sarahtuttlesingerwrites.com
