Loss

          Those first few days were infinitely more difficult.  I forgot what my handwriting looked like. I forgot what it felt like to aggravate my calloused middle finger, the weight of the pen and the rancid smell of ink.  My nervous ticks became more prominent – the careful yanking of eyelashes from the lids of my lazy eyes.  My face seemed to be more contorted from lack of nutrients, lack of sleep and constant hesitation.  My nails were frail and were tinged a murky and suspicious yellow.  My once tea stained skin became jaundiced spots of yellow. 

          Mourners came daily and filled the walls with their quiet.  The wallpaper began to peel at the corners with the humidity of breath as they became abstract paintings on the wooden floors of my parlor.  In a more modern world they would have been animated gifs - alive and so unreal. 

           

Words were hard to articulate, yet thoughts were assembling and waging wars in my mind.  Synapses firing curses and dendrites forming cannon balls of questions.  Losing my mother that summer should have been a relief.  The war was far from over.