I started a new life when I lost Molly. There was a new woman staring back at me when I looked in my bathroom mirror and I marveled at my marked skin, the lines and furrows imparted by bitterness and a new hostility towards everyone around me. Now, as I go about my days, I am morose and moody. Now too, when roused I spit fire. 

My early stages of grief were terrifying and I reeled at the impossibility of learning to perform this new identity. Tears held back for a lifetime suddenly spilled unbidden onto my cheeks. Often, I lashed out, unable contain my rancor. Yet I had become very fearful and would cower behind my husband, speaking only in whispers that floated away on the wind. I longed to be a ghost, and all the while was expected to navigate an unforgiving world. I became superstitious. I stopped washing my hair. 

Since then I’ve had but glimpses. Slowly, I started experiencing an occasional wisp of what feels almost like nostalgia. Sensing these minute connections to the person I was, I fumble for meaning. It comes in flashes and gradually I am learning to tentatively explore the flashes of memory to my prior naivete, and incorporate them into my present existence. I am a child, playing with blocks. I am a skeleton craving flesh. Every day I strike out, hungry to be integrated once more.


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