Remembrance

When does it stop hurting? I've heard the expression enough to know it's cliche. Yet I find myself uttering those same words today, digging through the remainders of an old life. A photograph will send me hurtling into memories that, while happy, still put a knot in my throat and a hitch in my voice. The process of moving shortly after such a loss only doubles the pain with the necessity of sorting through some of these trinkets in order to organize my life. And I realize it still hurts. My eyes still burn and then swarm with tears; my heart begins to ache in a way I'm still not used to, though God knows I should be.

When does it stop hurting? I wonder, staring down at an unopened box that I know contains all that's left of him. But that little voice inside me, that soft, gentle guide which whispers to us little kernels of truth meant to comfort says one thing. It's only been a year. And for some reason it works; this means that it's okay to once again let my shoulders droop and my eyes close, to let that knot in my throat choke me and let that aching release itself as I sob, wanting him.

When does it stop hurting?