By Alyson Tait
Every memory of him is a picture taped inside a book. The tomes clutter some untouchable part of my brain, making a godsdamn library I no longer want.
Asleep, the me that misses him gains control, borrowing volume after volume of memories. I dream of an era where there was time for us; where a normal life loomed ahead.
When I wake, I burn whatever sleep had dredged back up. Vodka almost always does the trick, dulling the razor’s edge of his death. And my vision.
I, and my waves of anger, form a rebellion against the relentless grief of him.
Good story. Enjoyed it
Strong depiction of how powerful grief can be. Well done.
Moving story. Does a wonderful job of showing grief.