The First Year

In the first year following my father’s death

I found myself a few times wanting to call him,

only to realize that a quick question wasn’t permitted any more.

I suppose - the same goes for a break up.

If you spoke to someone daily for years

-  most of your life in this case -  

and relied on that Someone like you did a childhood saint, way into your thirties

then the mere void of communication is a gut punch on its own.

I have been told it’s all my fault.

That it’s a choice.

That God is still there for me.

I am the one choosing to pull out.

I must be one helluva woman if the Creator of the Universe could give me the cold shoulder.

Tonight again - I lay in bed - wanting so desperately for Him to dry the tears.

I know what’s coming.

I suppose whether He cares about it is besides the point.

We can argue about dogs in Heaven.

At the end that won’t change this moment.

Or this need.

A need just for solace.

And just like that.

Just like the kid in the orphanage who stops crying, I go numb.

The tears roll over an expressionless face.

When the parting of my lips produces sound it’s somewhat coherent.

But you know that the silence of this moment is the start of a black hole deep down in your soul.