When the angles don’t add up.

If the interior angles don’t add up to 180 degrees, it is not a triangle.

Everyday there is a reality that I confront, and it is the same unresolvable emptiness.

I’m trying to work my way back to sanity in a world that is no longer sane.
There is something incongruous and irreconcilable about the fact that my son is dead, that he won’t walk in the front door and slam it hard and stomp up those stairs with heavy steps.
And everyday I come to terms, temporarily with the fact that it makes no sense and I can’t fix it.
So in some ways I am spinning my wheels. Coming back to the same spot.
And I can feel it, like I feel air or sunlight.
And still it makes no sense.
I don’t hear his voice. I don’t see his face. I will never feel his arms wrap around me and squeeze me tight. I won’t know what the future held for him. And that does not add up.

And I can think of it in big terms, like eternity. I can talk of stars and clouds and light.
I can write poems that don’t rhyme with words that echo back something I thought was profound.

And quote verses.
But in the end, it isn’t that complex.
This is the truth I am in:
My son is gone.
He is missing from my life today.
And I miss him.

I close my eyes so I can see his face. And as those tears well up, I hear his voice. And I struggle for a breath. I feel his arms around my chest.


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