Shelf

She haunts every space, and we crave it… It hurts us in every possible way, yet we feed off of it. Like she’s tiptoeing and peeking around each thought, and we have thoughts to encourage her presence. With the truth and travesty of her final year following right behind her, ready to expose us as well. The joy of her, never alone without the heartache. 
You see, I see her photo as I pass her shelf. My child’s memory… now adorning a shelf of trinkets. I never envisioned this is how her life would end. She would help me decorate that shelf with pictures and flowers once. Perfect organizations of each framed photo facing forward, in unison. Could you imagine? Your child… No, it’s not enough for me… this shelf. My body and soul can’t process the meaning of her new presence against that wall, in our dining room. My child was alive. She stared into my eyes and spoke every emotion within them. I have visions of those times. Before I was me, here… my cheeks are hot. My head is foggy. My eyes are watering. I can’t make this better. I’ve lost my chance. 
So right about now, I’m wondering how long we can live this way. Pretending to be like everyone else. Without the child we once loved, and with a new shelf (existence) we aren’t sure how to be a part of. She was our world, and we cherished her. We nourished her, and we grew with her. And then we gave her poison to try and save her. And worse yet, we gave her promises and lies to save ourselves.
“Anything to make you smile. You were the ever living ghost of what once was. No one is ever going to love you more than I do…”

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