TO DO
- 2 days ago
- 1 min read
By A Mother Bereft
My to-do list looks different these days.
No longer hastily scribbled notes of things to chase,
no columns of musts and maybes,
no flower doodles unfurling in the corners.
Now, it’s
how to breathe.
how to be.
Focus is evasive.
My mind drifts like smoke
unanchored, shapeless,
always curling back towards you.
I catch myself staring through the window,
eyes scanning the road for a shape that will never appear.
Some part of me still expects your return
the sound of your footsteps,
the door swinging open,
your voice breaking the hush.
I aimlessly scroll through photos of you,
wandering tortuously through your social media pages,
searching for something I missed.
Caffeine no longer stirs the fog.
Exhaustion has settled in my bones for the long haul.
I try to find enthusiasm,
but nothing seems important anymore.
Emails, errands, appointments
they all dissolve into static.
The world hums on, indifferent,
while I stand half-present in its noise.
Still, I’ve grown skilled at the art of pretending.
Laughing and speaking and smiling at the right cues.
Fake it ‘til you make it, they say.
But if you look closely,
you’ll see it.
How the light doesn’t reach my eyes anymore.
The dark crescents beneath them deepen daily,
small trophies of sleepless nights.
Grief has carved lines no cream can soften,
etching your absence into my skin.
Writing keeps me tethered.
It is a faint pulse beneath the ache,
a quiet rhythm
helping me through this pain of loss and living.