Of Rust

Can I speak to you of rust and broken things, of jagged pieces of glass and faded brittle plastic?
Can I tell you what it means to have a broken heart? Or what it is that I feel deep in my lungs and down in my liver?
Can I tell you about broken dreams? And brokenness? And of a grief never ending? Of tears and teardrops falling like rain, like a river, like the ocean?
Or should I speak of darkness and emptiness and pain?
Or compare what I lost, to losing everything.
And wanting to die a little every day. That wish I get. I get it.
And so what spills out of me are these endless expressions of grief… of that feeling of pain and sadness and loss… that over the years in our language is a broken heart or a broken dream.
And all those words have been worn dull through over use
And they don’t convey that truth. The truth I feel.

I am a father who has lost his son to death.
And that has left me feeling hurt and sad and alone and hopeless.
And I have learned in three years how to hide this every day from everyone around me.
But believe me. I hurt in ways I do not understand.
And it leaves me dull and numb sometimes
And raw and angry other times.
And so tired I want to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt down over me.

All those metaphors and euphemism for loss. And all I can say is the truth.
That every minute of every day I am conscious of one feeling. One desire.

I want my son back.

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