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Day 208

Updated: Jun 26, 2019

People keep asking how I’m doing. I want to tell them I feel like my arms have been made into sickles. I feel like someone has used a crowbar to break open my chest and rip out my heart. I feel like I’m slithering around like a wooded, disoriented animal ready to bite without provocation. However, I don’t say that. I don’t tell them I’m afraid of the slightest moment of inaction or silence because it fills me with the painful knowledge of my loss. I say, “I’m sure you can imagine.” They can’t, of course.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and wish I’d disappear. More often, however, I close my eyes and wish Constance would appear. I think about what she would be doing, how she’d look, and what would make her smile.

One of my friends, who is a professional artist, finds that the briefness of life limits her creative output. Therefore, she constantly embraces new mediums and projects. She finds meaning in her life—in the sun rising and setting. Her outlook has made me think of all the things Constance didn’t get the time to do. It has made me consider her many losses. I wonder if Constance would have been an artist. If her interests at age eight were any indication, she was more likely to be in the coast guard or on the Olympic swimming team.


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