The grief train is as punctual as ever, chugging along with its repetitive rasp. Why can’t it pause at the last stop or take a wrong turn? After all, the driver is a learner.
But no, it has a timetable and at the moment, it’s sticking to it. Today is Easter Sunday and as I sit here contemplatively shouving chocolates into my mouth, I wonder why you haven’t risen again? If it was possible to rise again based on love alone, you’d be here. You’d be here, tenfold.
C’mon Sweetheart. There’s chocolate to be eaten.
Tomorrow is my birthday. There’s wine to be drunk.