Waking up, day after day, first thought – he is gone. 

Get up, work at shaking off darkness, and move feet forward.

Everyday, the same.

Most days able to function, able to progress.

Some days, succumbing to the darkness, falling into the hole inside my heart.

Pleading to see him, touch him, talk to him, hold him, and begging to fix this.

How in world does any mother survive this?

Asking, myself, what are you going to do?

Looking at the break in the timeline,

The day he left.

Watching the layers peel and continue to break in an aftermath of aftershocks from the turbulent quake that shook all of our worlds together and separately.

Broken.

Non-reparable.

Falling, getting up, falling, and once again, getting up.

A life in slow motion reels, before me, inside me, behind me.

Detached from any destination but searching for a port to land softly, where things fit back together, where things make sense.

No hands on my hand, no brush on the shoulder.

No presence, no signs.

No one telling me that everything will be ok.

Increasingly exhausted, no more strength to hide behind.

Just a need for a hug, a cup of warmth, and someone to listen.

Leslie Beery, The Surviving Project scan0179