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Sep 2013
Snatched from my life.
He is gone so quickly.
I am not ready. Are you ever ready to lose one so dear?

Now all is black, black and cold and silent.
There I cringe.
Shrunken, at the bottom of a deep, black, cold and silent well.
So deep not a spark of light can reach me.
There is not a glimmer of hope to shine in and give me life again.

There I sit, curled with my arms wrapped about my knees holding them as close as I can.
Squeezing them in tight, the only thing to now fill the void in my arms where he once cradled.
Head deeply bent. There is no reason to raise my eyes.
I know he will not be there.
There is nothing there.
A huge empty black foreverness is all that surrounds me.

Each breath, each moment, each day I am a little smaller.
The pain of a broken heart is unbearable, the blackness ***** the life from me.
I cannot live like this and finally, after a time there is a small spark.
I see the words form in my mind. "I cannot live like this." And I realize I do not want to die.

So I fight. I struggle. I try to move.
I push the cold walls of the well back slightly.
Just the tiniest bit lets a small glimmer of light shine in.
That is all it takes to let me see there is another way.
This desperation and despair is not for me. I cannot die this way. I am not ready to give up my life.
It is not my time. I cannot give up, not yet. My will to live is all that can save me now.

I stretch my hand up and find a crevice in the stone to make a start,
A start of a long journey back to life, one step at a time.
I climb, little by little, up to the light that shines above.
Above this hole in the ground, above this death, above this hell.

The black stone walls now show streaks of gray and white, very little white but some white.
The air warms, is lighter, smells sweeter. It is easier to breathe.
The dampness lessens as I inch my way to the surface.
The farther I crawl upward the bigger the circle of light becomes,
The brighter the sunlight,
The warmer I feel.
At some point, I cannot pinpoint when, I know I will live.
I will struggle but I will live.
This was me after my son died. It took me a long time to be able to write this but I had to get it out and into reality as part of my recovery although recovery is perhaps to strong a word. Perhaps rebirth is better.
Connie Buchan
Written by
Connie Buchan  Regina, SK, Canada
(Regina, SK, Canada)   
453
   --- and SE Reimer
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