The month

Exactly a month since you left.

I realize I've been trying to live my life as if you never happened, and last night I had time to think what would have been our life together had things been different. If you were here it would have been more unbearable; as it is, your being away made is so much easier to think that regardless of how I feel (or how you feel) there's nothing I (we) can do about it, not for now anyway.

The sorrow isn't as bad as before; the pain a vague feeling of how it used to be. I never wanted to feel that way again, but there's no guarantee, is there?

Friends say my case isn't that tragic after all; they say for some it takes years to get up and move on; they believe my being able to "swing around" and move on almost immediately is testament to how well I've managed the situation. If only they knew.

Only those who had felt the same way I did would understand that there's no other choice but to get up and move on; they would understand how painful it is to do so, how much courage it takes to face the world and project an aura of recovery and well-being. To survive it was necessary to let go and move on.

The heart has a mind of its own; it also has a memory of its own. It does not forget as easily as the one between our ears.

It has its own time. It follows it own will.

Bend it not for it will break.