You and I are long lost friends, it seems. I can’t shake you. You’ve laid claim to my heart. I’ll let you live there, but only because I know your enemy, life, holds me closer and tighter than you do.
You live in the scars on my left arm, in the deepest and jagged edges of the one on my right thigh. You live in the shadows of beautifully perfect sun filled days. You live in that one brief but sad glance across the dinner table when the reminder that the circle of routine and life and perfect love was forever broken by you, dear old death.
You were never invited in, yet you’ve made it clear you’re going to live in every big moment, every ordinary moment, and every moment in between for all of the days of my life. You’re at some of your most haunting moments in those three to four joyful minutes at every wedding - when the proud and beaming and joyful mother steps onto the dance floor with her equally as proud and joyful son. You knock the breath out of us in those moments every single time. You never leave, death. Just when I think I’m escaping you, when I’m not on edge awaiting your next arrival, you spring up from the darkest depths and attack again. You threaten to do what you do best - steal my joy and my faith and my bravery and my love for this life - over and over and over again. You steal my people and my comfort. You steal good days and replace the impending days immediately after your unwelcome arrival each time with heartbreak and loneliness. You turn things and people and families I love into ghosts. You steal it all.
My mama taught me how to stare you down in the face of the moment with courage and grace, though I still have a bit of learning to do on the grace front (please don't you dare take this as an invitation for that learning to begin now, you asshole). My papa bear taught me how to give you a swift kick in the gut with a strong foot and a brave face. You may try, time and time again, but you won't win.
I'll never be thankful for you and I'll always hate you.