They tell me death is a part of life. They tell me to be grateful that I have finally experienced something so difficult. They tell me it will be “okay”. You died yesterday morning and I did not cry as I have been since two Thursdays ago. I was relieved. I didn’t have to see you in pain anymore; my weakness could not take it. I went about my life, granted with the taste of a kiwi snowcone spoiled from the news. I released the anxiety that weighed down my back—the perpetual aching of exhaustion and muted misery dissolved, vanquished. I lay awake waiting for the sadness that had plagued me for days, the tears that left me shaking and empty; they never came.
It is the morning after the day you died. I am still relieved. I am still living my life without dramatic interruption. I am broken, but I have already begun to mend. My devastating weakness became your strength; now your weakness has become mine. I am not foolish enough to say that I am “fine”. I am not foolish enough to say “It will be okay”. I am, however, tired enough to admit that I have been changed. I have the serenity to accept what I cannot change; the courage to change what I can; I am not wise, but one day I will know the difference.
I cried this morning, and I’m okay.