How long can I hide?
How long can I be ok? Fine, even?
How long can I go on pretending that I believe the mask that is so easy to put on for others?
The same mask that I know isn’t really fooling me at all.
But I try.
I want to believe that the creeping memories and reminders aren’t there.
It hurts less that way.
Not really, but I tell myself that it does.
That the memories aren’t just waiting for that moment when my mind is quiet and unguarded and they can spring up and catch me.
I know how good I am at seeing them in the periphery of my mind’s eye, and turning away to elude their grasp on me in that moment.
But they haven’t been avoided, they know it and so do I.
I do, really.
I’ve played phantom with them and won this time.
But I won’t always win.
They know it and so do I.
Yet I tell myself that I am doing ok. Fine, even.
That I am so much better than this time last year.
Look at me…
I’m ok, fine even.
It’s not even on my radar as the weeks and then days come closer.
Not even one little bit.
See how ok I am? Fine, even.
As that date that I want to ignore and pretend has no meaning to me relentlessly approaches.
It’s just another month, ticking by.
His journals sit in the closet next to his remains.
I get out a towel from the linen closet and don’t see that.
Not at all.
The box with his shirt that doesn’t smell of him anymore.
Not after all this time.
None of it’s not even there to me.
Neither is this month.
The fear is there though.
The fear of not pretending.
So I let myself believe that I’m ok, fine even.
Until I can almost even believe it myself.
And I hope and I wish.
That I don’t fall to so many pieces that I can’t come back together again.
So I hold on tightly.
And I’m ok. Fine, even.