My precious girl, if you could call to ask me how I am, I’d just tell you that I’m still trying to figure out what it all means. Sorry, I know, that’s an intellectual riposte to a question that begs for an emotional reply.
You see, my tears blossom privately. I selfishly guard them like they’re rare and exquisite orchids that need protective isolation to bloom. I carefully tend them in the cover of night in secrecy or at remote times during the day when everyone else is busy with the distracting things that fill up their own rich lives.
So, when people ask me how you’re doing, I use crafty diversion and reach for the most banal of replies.”Oh, she’s taking it one day a time, like all of us,” or something else just as inane and non-committal.
Numb replies help keep those delicate new buds covertly hidden until I can retreat to the safety of complete solitude and then provide them the perfect environment to reach full and hearty maturity.
I miss you. So much