Breathing again

It’s been several weeks now, but I couldn’t bring myself to write about losing you. When I had cried all the tears I had, I came here:

It was here that I started to breathe again. Although I had never brought you here, I could see you here, in my mind’s eye. You were in the blue of the sky beyond the panes of glass. You were in the flowers. You were their vibrancy, their fragility. In the shock of losing you, everyone recalled your energy and your quick laughter, but I remember most your gentleness, your silences that communicated volumes. Even as your lips were always curled into a ready smile, vulnerability resided there.

Children flocked to you, perhaps seeing their own innocence reflected in your eyes. And you lifted them up, high above your head, up into the infinite blueness. You spun them round, and fell down into a heap together. In that moment, you had found the world. Nothing else mattered then but that gentle grassy slope, the tangle of arms, the sweet faces turned upward, the laughter that erupted freely.

I still see you every time I look outside into the backyard. I still remember that carefree day, that dizzy, spinning, lush, sky-blue day. And, your laughter echoes still, even from the peace you have found now.