The meeting

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Disclaimer: Themes of self harm.





I was kicking rocks

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I was kicking rocks.

My best friend and the love of my life died today at 6:42 pm under the front porch.

Dad buried her two hours after I found her. I stood by him the entire time. Didn't shed a single tear.

I couldn't believe it. Maybe I still can't believe it.

A part of me died today.

Her limp body fit perfectly in the box my boots came in three Easter's ago. That was the only time my mom ever bought me rain boots.

Her lashes were white, like the undercoat on her belly. Everything else was black. She was a mutt, the only thing we knew was that she needed a home all those years ago when we found her by the side of the road.

When Dad was done, he put a concrete slate that sunk down on the soft mound of brown.

Lola. The Goodest Girl.

I wrote that. I was 10.

That was the third death in five years.

First it was Mom and my would be brother. But that was a two for one kind of deal, I guess.

Everyone loved Lola. But not as much as I did.

After Dad left, I knelt down beside her grave.

That's when I finally felt comfortable.

I couldn't see a thing through my tears. I could hardly smell either, snot ran down my nose.

I placed a palm on her name. Sobs wracked through me silently as I laid down, hugging what was left of her in the form of a grave.

I didn't know how to make it stop.

I woke up the next day in bed. Still in my dress.

I cleaned myself up slowly, staring at the dirt leaving me, imagining it was my blood.

I went downstairs to find my dad had gone to work. A note on the fridge telling me to eat something.

I opened it. Pickles. Mustard. Four day old spaghetti. Bread. I closed it.

I don't know why I bothered. I haven't been hungry these last couple of years.

My bike had a bell. Walking into the garage, I picked it up off the ground and rode out of the driveway.

The dent in the mailbox is still there from when I crashed it. I need to put the bell back on at some point.

I had a whole day to myself before school started.

A fresh Sunday morning and I still felt sickly.

Grieving a death is like a cold you can't shake off. It needs time to slowly remove itself, if ever.

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⏰ Last updated: May 18 ⏰

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