Querido mío,
ER ripped my heart out tonight, between people dying and the heart medicines advertised. I probably needed the cry; it’s been a sad few days again.
I realized, watching the child on the show watch as her mother died that I wanted to be there. I wanted to be there with you and for you as you left. I wanted to hold your hands, your body close to mine until I felt your soul leave, and then hold you some more. I wanted to kiss your face and tell you I love you and bless you for coming to me. I wanted to scream and cry while you were still warm and in my sight. If I couldn’t stop it, I wanted to witness it. I wasn’t spared anything this way. It was no blessing to not be there when you left, or when you were found. You were alone. And now I’m alone. And what the hell for??? Wasn’t your leaving cruel enough? Did it have to be this way? Christ, A, WHY? Why any of it? Why did you have to go at all? Why then? Why didn’t we get to say goodbye? You were just swept away from me. I never saw your body. I never had a funeral. They came in and they swept up your life, disappeared it and locked it away from me. They scattered your ashes to the winds without me.
Does it really not matter, because you’re not really dead? That you’re alive and well in the next life, awaiting on us all? Because it feels like it matters. It feels like it matters a whole hell of a lot to me, accent on the hell.
All I’ve got is hearsay, and precious little of that. Not only was I robbed of your life, I was robbed of your death. And it hurts. And I’m angry. And I don’t know what to do about it. So I weep. And I hurt. My heart hurts and I can’t breathe and I have these anxiety attacks because the only reality that has touched me in regards to your death is your continued absence, which I hate. I keep hating it because it keeps being. You are not coming back to me. But my heart keeps looking for you, my soul keeps yearning for you, and my mind can only say "WHY?" over and over and over again.
What the fuck am I supposed to do, A? I’m grasping at straws, as if anything could make this better. But it might make it less worse. It’s so hard, Babe. It’s so god-awful fucking hard.
I love you. You know I miss you so much it hurts.
Night,
Your girl left behind