Misery Brings Poetry Within Prose

With the first of the second-to-last month here, hope has disappeared. His face is stony again, and every scenario has been played out in his mind. He buried his head beneath the pillow last night, and it was stone quiet. In the shower today, the water on my face was warmer than the water from the wall. The towel wrapped around me finds my face in a dozen different positions; it's a comfort to bury in as I sob.

There is never a specific reason to cry. It's simply an emotional release. I have a feeling I won't be wearing my costume or going to a party tonight, but knowing I've looked forward to it makes me all the more determined to go.

Go. We want to go. I've hit the six-month mark again, and he feels stuck here. Again. We want to move, to travel, to propel forward for progress's sake. I promised to bring an appetizer to the party. Bread's a good appetizer for a party we might not attend. The loaves served from a waitress are small and whole and fill the cutting board they arrive with.

The tears arrive again and remind me that I'm not whole. Christmas isn't Christmas without my best friend. Or without my family. But he is my family, the hope within me and beside me every night. We'll stay in this square state instead of that square state. Hopefully, we can find wholeness.