|
I haven’t even started to understand the words that they told me; something to do with black ice, shattered glass and a shriek of metal against an ancient oak tree at 8:30 pm. Something to do with you, they say.
Now they want to do what? Put you in the ground? That’s absurd, it’s freezing out there, it’s January for fuck’s sake, what are those people talking about? Has everyone lost their minds? I can’t even comprehend this nonsense.
I haven’t even started to understand, to process the fact that your whiskers are still in the bathroom sink, your six-pack in the fridge is only half gone, and someone is asking me about grave liners or vaults, rosewood or oak, satin or linen.
I don’t even know who I am right now, and the stars are still silvering the sky, Orion’s belt is still blazing, the indent on your side of the bed is still there, your water glass is there beside the clock, and a man in a black coat is talking about God.
I haven’t even started to understand why I should be grieving. I’m not holding anything in, I’m not trying to be strong, it’s just that there’s nothing to say yet. I’m not there yet. I’m still cooking radiatore at 8:29 pm, watching for your headlights, like stars in the frosted pane.
|