The walls breathed in synchrony with me and there I was, in the dark, swimming in my papers, tears, bills, and reminders of my dear Colette. I waded in the papers, trying to keep my neck above, trying not to be pulled under. I was Alice and she was my cake that seemingly was the cure but left me with a void too big. The papers lapped at my feet and arms, joking together about what fate I should meet. Their fluttering and crinkles mimicked laughter in my ears. I search for a light, I search for someplace to rest, but I've been swimming for years at this point and I've grown tired.
What awaits me?
What will greet me?
Will I be met by the warm embrace of Colette or her stern stare or by an empty nothingness? Will the rot in my brain overcome me and leave me to the rats in the walls? Could I be found weeks after the day I journey off to find Colette? At my funeral, I am afraid I will have little to no attendees. I won't receive flowers on my grave on the anniversary but I guess it is karma. I was too mad at her for too long. Am I to only be dust and grass fertilizer? Am I destined to live through all this sorrow, heartache, and isolation to only be alone yet again?
My thoughts, memories, and the papers cut deep into my skin as I attempted to sleep, but I laid there, curled up, sobbing.
YOU ARE READING
8 Hours Until Paradise
Spiritual"8 Hours Until Paradise" is a piece that grapples with grief and mortality. 75+ yo, Mr. Regdell has vowed his late wife, Colette, to complete a bucket list they made shortly after first meeting. Mr. Regdell has likely completed most or every box up...
