The Box

Today your remains arrived in a box. It’s a small box, about the size of a box a pair of shoes would come in. You weigh only a pound or two.

I had husband put the box in the closet where I can’t see you. I’m not ready to look at you yet.

Monica and I are both going to have part of you. We will also share your watch.

I don’t know how to deal with this. When I said goodbye to you and dealt with the emotional feelings that it caused, I was under the impression that I had dealt with it all.

And then you died. You died in your sleep. It was the best way you could have gone. I was terrified you were going to have another seizure, or something equally terrifying for your partner to witness. So in that sense, I’m glad things went the way they did.

But I’m all fucked up in the head now. I miss you. I can still hear your voice in my head and sometimes when I yell. I want my birthday kazoo. I want you being pissed off at me for something stupid that I’m mad you’re pissed.

And I can’t have any of that anymore. Why in the hell do I miss you being MAD at me? Of all of the shit to miss, that seems like the most stupid.

I just don’t know how to deal with it all. I’m waiting to get into therapy.

It just fits so damned much that even in your death you’re difficult and fucking with my head and upsetting me.

I don’t want to miss you anymore.

One thought on “The Box”

  1. You miss her being mad because it was irrefutable proof that she loved you, and cared enough that what happened to you always mattered to her.

    I miss her so much that I can’t let myself think about it. The pain is unbearable. However, I never want to stop missing her; I wouldn’t know how.

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