No one understands the seething anger. My husband thinks it's about him. Sometimes I get confused and think it's about my job. Some people think I'm just being a big baby and should learn to accept what can't be changed and go make sandwiches like normal people, you know, smiling all the time, and shit. Fuck those people.
Nope. It's none of those things. It's that she got hurt, badly, horribly, disjointedly hurt and taken on my watch. On my watch.
All these stupid holiday grab fests offer bitter reminders of what I had and what I'll never have again. She'll never show up with her hair in a messy bun and mismatched socks looking like an angel. We will never be side by side at the counter with flour on our faces rolling out homemade pie crust like a commercial or burping babies on our shoulders after the big meal. That is all gone. I can see it, like those pictures I've never seen before that keep popping up, but I'll never touch those daydreams.
Other people get to survive. Other people get second chances. They get babies. They get lives.
She rests in a long, dark hole, with her broken bones arranged just so.
I should have died with her.
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