My body contains an unmarked grave, the remains of you buried deep in the skin. I cannot lay a wreath or sit with your bones when the calendar and clock remind me. I cannot etch my claim on a granite marker for others to see, I cannot publish our obituary. This is a grief that is private, this is a grief inconsequential. I am looking over my shoulder with no-one behind me.

(Can you really have lost what you never had? I am no closer to the answer.)

I have drowned the question in vodka, in tears. I have swum up through the sadness, I have counted the longest nights on fingers and stars. I have avoided other arms and wrapped my own about me. I have dreamt of you and awoke to me. I have been alone for the first time in years, this year of being alone, without you. And I have liked it too, this me missing you. I have liked discovering what I am without you.

(Can you really have lost what you never had? I am no closer to the answer.)

It is amazing what a year can bring. This revolution we have danced around the sun. I know too, just what it brought to you. But I’m thinking tonight about you and I. How you and I were something, love. How you and I were something. Love. And how everything changes with a little inflection – how when you touch you leave a mark.

So here you are – still – deep in the skin. No laurel or lilies have been laid for your passing, but you have been honoured just the same. I have written a whole book about it, you know. Isn’t that something to keep in the end? Can you really have lost what you never had?

(I write my way closer to the answer.)

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

Image by Joanne Piechota

Published by Eidyia

I am only three things for sure - an Atheist, a Feminist, and a Writer - one who obsesses over the grand themes of love, memory and connection.

16 thoughts on “Anniversary

  1. So beautifully expressed. Every one of these is a prose poem, as I’m sure you know. You take a simple feeling like “bittersweet”, and make it alive with sharp, poignant images and gorgeous language. Makes me yearn, even though I don’t have the memory — but you bring the memory to life in my my imagination. If that makes sense.

    1. As a reader, I definitely get what you are saying, and as a writer, if I even half get close to bringing that out in others I’m so happy! Your comments, when they come, so often feel like a hand squeeze of encouragement (if that makes sense!) xx

  2. I love reading your thoughts…at times you seem to be speaking directly to me… and this piece spoke to me like an old friend who has been through a similar pain, sharing a few words of wisdom.

    1. Such a lovely thing to say – thank you. I’m trying to tell myself a few truths here (well, exaggerated truths, ha!) and I’m glad to know others can relate xx

  3. I agree with an earlier comment. Your prose is bittersweet and easy to relate to. I find that your use of metaphors and rhetorical question illuminate these memories quite well. I wonder if you think about the language (schematics and words) when you write, or just the literature (your theme or point)?

    Adieu, scribbler

    1. I’ve been thinking about this question since your comment popped up. I think … that it is the language that drives most of what I write. I often get a certain sentence stuck between my fingers almost, something to do with the rhythm of the words and the image they represent, and if I’m patient, a whole piece grows out of it. It’s a slow process!!!

    1. Thank you for the re-blog! I hope – as I am discovering – that for you there are other anniversaries to take the place of the ones that ache xx

  4. this is a stunning piece – i am impatiently waiting for a year to go by – i am hoping he will become a distant memory – very distant. i am very happy unlovingyou re-blogged this –


    1. Thank you for your comment – it always moves me when I realise how many people are dealing with this same kind of loss. It DOES get better, and the memories find their place, eventually. I promise xx

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