I have seen the psychiatrist… and he has affirmed that I am doing well.
I have a bottle of pills that are supposed to ease anxiety and compulsive or racing thoughts. I haven’t taken one yet.

But I have to circle around to what I feel and why I feel it:
My son was not supposed to die.
My son should be entering adulthood and running out on his own.
My son should be growing older as I grow old.
And I should at some interval, be able to call him on a Sunday and hear his voice.

I should not have to feel this awful emptiness… this loss. I should not have to feel bereft.
I should not be looking into this profound void and feel it sucking from me every last hope and joy. I cannot help be astonished to think of today, and tomorrow and the next day… facing the reality of loss. The heavy, visceral, solid reality.

But that is the reality of it. A reality that no pill can erase. A reality waiting for me at the end of every moment of joy, or upon every moment of waking, or at every silent moment.


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