The crisp envelopes rest on my dresser. As they have for five days.
Condolences. Phrases etched from heartstrings to ballpoint.
And I haven't been able to open one.
Since we returned home, I've cocooned myself, wiping noses, packing lunches, and changing the subject.
I embrace the tasks, and pull away from the embraces.
And the envelopes rest on the dresser.
My husband and I discuss health insurance, retirement, and death
certificates. We can clean up these twigs and branches, ignoring the
hole on the side of our house.
But the envelopes wait, the voices trapped within.
It's time. I open a package, and find yellow Narcissus bulbs inside. "Plant these. And when they bloom, remember your mother."
And, holding that promise in my hand, I smile. And cry, a little.
I leave my cocoon. It is a cold, bright world, full of tomorrows.