She sliced the air with her fists
and told me she was drowning in sadness.
I heard, but I didn’t listen.
She sobbed, and I told her
everything would work out
as I read a newspaper.
She raked her fingers through her hair,
and told me I didn’t understand.
I encouraged her to hang on.
She told me she had days to live.
I told her she wasn’t sick.
She said I didn’t get it.
I promised I would.
Three days ago, she slipped away in May.
We buried her burned
body in a casket
that withered to ashes
as if to erase memories
that dance beneath
the surface.
She’s in my heart, they say.
But as I breathed, a breeze caressed my cheek.
I pray for the strength
to make it through another day
of sleeping without her presence.
I didn’t get it then, but I get it now.
Depression wasn’t her friend.

(If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, please consider visiting the CDC Suicide Prevention page.)

Twitter – @AC0040

(© 2023 AC)

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