The pockets of our blistering love catch me by surprise, all of a sudden. It’s the hum of someone typing, greasy hair pulled back, the whoosh of a card that looks like the one I unwrapped for you.

A couple ordering breakfast like they practiced in their sleep, dancing circles to fetch fresh juices and sign receipts. How many breakfasts did we share together? Baked goods and fried eggs fall flat in my mouth without your fingers nearby, nimbly untangling hair from my ears and swallowing the last bites without asking.

Thank you for sparing me all of the reasons why. They burn well enough left dripping inside my head.

This space makes a home for a lot of grieving. What brought the riproar of tears from my throat and eyes felt so old, like it had been living inside of my body for decades I haven’t seen.

What’s hysterical is historical, the wound has been waiting for this flush long before the snow fell. Your words rose from the dirt and bones and spoke to me the apology clutched in his dead hands. Nestled next to my little girl heart. Handed to me now with patience and flowers, like I have ever learned how to accept things that belong to me.