Week 1: I was laughing exactly twenty-two minutes after I held your lifeless hand. They called it coping. I called it insanity.
Week 2: I haven't slept a full night in a week because I can't remember the last thing you said to me.
Week 3: I still reach for your hand every time an airplane flies by. I still despise planes.
Week 4: Can you ask God if I'm allowed to be angry yet?
Week 5: I mourn the grandchildren you will never meet and I will never bear because they might have your eyes.
Week 6: We lit a cigarette for you today as if God would let such a deadly sin into the pearly gates. Happy birthday.
Week 7: I've never liked this house.
Week 8: I jokingly call other people Dad until it doesn't sting to say that word anymore.
Week 9: "I want to have a better relationship with you," turned into "I'm so sorry," too quickly.
Week 10: Depression is such a mouthful, three course meal of arsenic.
Week 11: You always told me I had a natural beauty, didn't need to paint a face of porcelain. I wear a lot of makeup now.
Week 12: I'm still not ready to write about you yet.
They say you never truly write until you're completely honest with yourself, split yourself open and strip down every layer of your soul. I call this my first poem.