She is irritated. She is she is she is she is me. I am her. She is me. I sound just like her, they tell me. But I am NOT her. I am me. I carry her and her name around with me. Everyday. Every way. Hope to be as good, as smart, and maybe even happier. Justice for she. She died. She lived. Here she is. Now and then. Different but the same. Alive but dead. The light in her eyes, which once burned so vibrantly, is now reserved for fleeting moments on limited days. With her I am lost while found.....whole but fragmented...resolved but left wanting.
I am selfish, I think. Indeed, I am regularly reminded of such assertions through other assertions from people I have trusted since inception. Selfish with my thoughts, wishes, and dreams. The dreams she dreamed for me stretched as far as the eye can see. Now I dream of dreams, make peace with dreams, imagine new dreams. I am damaged. Devoid of instinct...of the confidence to say I know what I know what I know.
"Thank you," she says.
"For what?" I respond.
"For letting me breath," she tells me.
I move towards the bed where she lies and prop myself against the familiar headboard. Unaware of her own power she grasps my hand and and holds it between hers. As tears begin to stream down my cheek, I am as thankful as I am angry. Grateful for this moment of connection, of flashback, of awakening. Missing her even as she holds me. Upset that I am crippled by the past, unwilling to accept this future. Learning to accept what I thought I'd accepted. Parting with what I thought was departed.
He pities me. Slams doors at the very thought of what I think. Yells and pleads with confusion. With anger. Succeeds at deploring my processes, demanding me to question my methods...my very ways of being me and seeing me.
I am scared and fearful of not having the know how or courage to change. Changing the way I experience change. The most profound and affecting change of my life. She is me. I am she. We are we and forever shall we be. Together.
