the Trigger-happy housewife

Bringing the constantly fantastic and painfully insane together daily!

Water Lines

on August 28, 2015
I want to say that I am happy now. I can not say that I am who I was. I feel like my life now is not a continuation of that life, it is new. Something dies in you when you lose everything – and I am not talking about material things. I am talking about life as you know it ending. I am not saying that I can not see the good that has come. If the remains of a burned house, left for a decade, became over run with wild flowers – we could appreciate the beauty and still mourn the family who lived there and their loss. We could see the change and still acknowledge that something tragic happened.

Everything and nothing.

That is what I feel:

the whole of loss,

the entirety of emptiness,

the total of nil.

My heart is at it’s capacity –

of vacancy.

It is a feeling I have struggled with,

for ten years.

For ten years.

A decade.

A decade

lived on pause.

The then and the now,

both frozen.

Both immovable,

caught in a time and place

that doesn’t exist,

but will exist forever.

Katrina.

Katrina.

Like a splinter,

wedged in between.

An eyesore,

detour,

the great divide.

The sun came up,

I had not slept.

The sun came up,

I was not ready.

The sun came up,

like the day before.

The sun came up,

like we didn’t matter,

like it didn’t happen,

like my father wasn’t lost in the city still,

like my memories were not drowning.

The sun came up,

as if life was going on.

Life went on.

I have watched myself –

live.

I have watched myself –

move.

I have watched myself –

continue.

I have not seen her cry,

not about Katrina.

I have not seen her.

Not since Katrina.

They put up signs,

for the water lines –

and I feel like I can’t breathe.

They put up signs,

for the water lines –

and I feel like I haven’t taken a breath.

Not a single breath.

Ten years ago.

A decade ago.

My memories,

my proof of existence.

Me.

All submerged,

left to rot in the toxic water.

Me.

Excavating the bones

of another life.

Fishing the brittle remains

from the gray,

from the dried ending.

Deep below the water lines.

Ten years ago.

A decade,

and I am still wet.

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