after you died
after you died, i filled bowls with salt and quartz and left them around the house in the places people would congregate, holding each other, in the hopes that some of the grief would be absorbed, some of the weight lifted, because it was the only thing i could think of when all of my usual tools were failing me.
it feels so absurd now, when i think about it: my belief that salt and rocks might save us. that there might in any way ever be an end to the grief.
my diary now reads like a book of after you died.
my life now reads like a book of after you died.
where do i go from here? i can't go back but can't find forward.